Bioshock: You Should Not Have Come
by Sly M. Cogan
Summary: Jack was just a regular car salesman. Until a fateful crash somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean changed everything. Based on the characters and events of the first game.
1. Happy New Year

_Disclaimer - I own no legal rights to the Bioshock universe or any related characters._

**_A/N - _Usually, I'm not a fan of fics that are proposed sequels or stories of how movie versions of fandoms should be, because inevitably the movie or sequel comes out and the fanfic ends up being not even close. But, let's face it, movies hardly ever get videogames right. They range from being entertaining enough if not held up to the high standards of the games they're based on or complete slaps in the face to fans of the games. From Super Mario Brothers to Max Payne, Hollywood seems unable to walk the tightrope between artistic license and faithfullness to the source material without falling into unpleasant territory.**

**There have been murmurs of a Bioshock movie since before I actually played the game. But, let's be honest here, Hollywood has its work cut out for it, because, while Bioshock is revolutionary and at times very cinematic, it's made for a very different medium from film. No one's going to be entertained by watching a pair of hands attached to a character with no distinct personality shooting things occassionally and listening to old tape recording for two hours. Liberties will have to be taken.**

**And I couldn't stop thinking about how I would do it. I'll be taking plenty of creative licenses, but I hope, as a new Bioshock fan, that I'll be true to the characters and spirit of the game. If nothing else, this is a little AU fanfic, so I can share my versions of the characters and story of the first Bioshock game. I hope you enjoy it.**

BIOSHOCK

New Year's Eve, 1959.

Kashmir Restaurant.

Diane sat on her bar stool and let her eyes sweep over the dance floor. Fashionable, happy couples danced cheek-to-cheek, without a care in the world, only optimistic about what the new decade would bring. They were dressed in Bella Mia's High Fashion or Sophia Salon, only a few daring individualists brave enough to take the dance floor in clothes they'd brought from the surface. Everyone was the very image of high society, if it weren't for the ridiculous masks. Diane hated the smiles beneath the pig snouts, chicken beaks, and bear muzzles.

The lithe brunette was wearing her favorite yellow dress. The one with the flirtatiously low-cut V-neck, baggy fabric that draped over her thin abdomen, and long slits to show off her often-complimented legs. And in her lap was a set of bunny ears, exactly like the one in the picture on the invitations to the masquerade ball.

A record was playing "Dream a Little Dream of Me" by Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald. Diane sighed and looked from her empty martini glass to the untouched glass of scotch and soda at the empty place beside her. She lifted her olive, studied it for a few seconds, then proceeded to grind it with her teeth.

The song on the record switched to another slow song. "If I Didn't Care" by The Inkspots.

She didn't know she could be more miserable until she heard the lyrics as she watched the couples dance. She sighed again, more angrily this time, and then took her Accu-Vox recorder from her bag.

"Another New Year's. Another night alone. I'm out, and he's stuck in Hephaestus. Working. Imagine my surprise. I think I'll have another drink, Bill."

Bill McDonagh stopped wiping a glass on his apron and looked at her. He was a burly man, just under six feet tall, with a thick mustache that added to his walrus-like appearance. Bartending was McDonagh's hobby. What he did to unwind when he wasn't, almost single-handedly, keeping the entire city from imploding and killing everyone within.

"Ms. McClintock, I think you've had enough," McDonagh said, as soothingly as he could manage with his rough Cockney accent.

"I'll take another martini, Bill," Diane said, more forcefully this time.

McDonagh poured gin and vermouth into a shaker, knowing better than to mess with a woman both scorned and sloshed.

It was a testimony to how laid back the New Year's Eve festivities were for once that McDonagh had been allowed to help bartend the event at Kashmir's. His own tavern catered to an entirely different class, and when he mixed a drink, even the most cosmopolitan potable came out as strong as straight rye whiskey. Which, tonight, suited Diane McClintock just fine.

She raised her martini glass.

"Here's a toast to Diane McClintock, silliest girl in all of Rapture."

The clock was just about to strike twelve. Soon everyone would stop where they were on the dance floor and start singing Auld Lang Syne or trying to steal as many kisses as possible. The very thought gave her a headache. She swallowed her martini whole, let it burn in her esophagus, and then stood up to leave, almost forgetting her Accu-Vox still recording on the bar.

But the opening notes of Auld Lang Syne never came. Instead there were gunshots and screams. Water began spraying through the hull.

Everyone panicked.

The restaurant was filled beyond capacity as the armed men and women stormed in. They were the uninvited. The lower class. The forgotten dregs of the city, broken beneath the links of the Great Chain. The air stunk with their smell. And their faces were more terrifying than anything that could be hid beneath a mask.

One of them shouted, "_Long Live . . . !"_

But the last word was lost in the screams and gunfire and trampling. McDonagh was loading a shotgun he'd pulled from somewhere beneath the bar. Diane tried to run, but slipped and fell in the water that was beginning to flood the room.

"Look. Over here." One of them said. "It's Ryan's girl."

He pulled a knife off his belt and bent over her.

"Why are you doing this?" Diane demanded. "What's happening? I'm bleeding. Oh, God. What's happening? Oh, God . . ."

The record button popped up on the Accu-Vox. No more room left on that tape.


	2. All Strung Up

_Disclaimer - I own no rights to the Bioshock universe._

Six Months Later . . .

Jack tilted the bottle up all the way, let the vodka pour straight to his liver. He could hear footsteps outside of his cramped office. He shoved the lid back on and quickly returned the bottle to its hiding spot.

The door opened a crack.

"You've got some potential customers waiting."

Jack rubbed his aching forehead.

"Okay. Be right out."

He forced himself out of his uncomfortable chair and stepped out of the office, across the foyer, and into the open lot. A family of three was waiting. A clean-shaven man in his thirties in a jaunty tweed suit and felt fedora, a woman in her Sunday best, and a three-year old girl in a shabby sundress, already fussing and trying to break free from her mother's iron grip. He knew the make and model of the automobile they were looking at, but the vodka and his general apathy were clouding his memory of it.

"Hi, I'm Jack." He extended his arm, but the father was too busy looking disapprovingly at Jack's drunken gait to shake his hand. "I see you've spotted our little beauty, here, and let me assure you, it's exactly the mode of transportation you and your family are looking for."

"It is a nice car," the father said in agreement, "but we were actually hoping we could see something a little cheaper."

"What for?" Jack said. "This is the perfect car for you. Why look any further?"

"Well, we were actually looking for something a little . . ."

"Come on, cheapskate!" Jack snapped. "Just buy the damn car!"

This was too much for the already-fussy three-year old, who began wailing as soon as Jack raised his voice.

"Well, I never!" the mother spoke up.

"Look, did you come here to stroll around our lot, or do you actually wanna buy a damn car?"

"It's a little too expensive," the father said indignantly. "We were just looking at it until we could find someone to help us."

"I'm here to help you now," Jack said. "Now, what would it take to get you behind the wheel of this car?"

"You're still not listening to me!" the man said, more angrily this time. The little girl began crying louder. Jack clenched his fists.

"Shut that kid up! If you don't shut that kid up, I swear to God I will!"

The mother pulled the little girl in closely. The father was now clenching a pipe in his mouth so tightly he nearly bit the tail off.

"I'm sorry," Jack said, trying to regain some composure. "You want to see something cheaper? I'll show you. Come on."

The father took the mother by the hand and they began to walk away.

"Wait! Come back! I'll show you something cheaper!"

It was too late, and now the manager was marching up to him.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm trying to sell a car. Just trying. To sell a car."

"Not here you're not. I gave you a job as a favor to an old friend, but I can't put up with this anymore. Drinking on the job? Bullying customers? And I put up with it just so you can pay for your drug habits? Not anymore. You're fired."

"But, sir. You don't understand. It's just been a really bad day, and the little girl kept . . ."

"No more excuses. I want you off my dealership before I call the cops."

* * *

Several hours later, Jack woke up in the bed of his rundown apartment. His undershirt and shorts were soaked in warm sweat, and a half-empty syringe of heroin was sticking out of his arm.

A drawer slammed. His beautiful girlfriend was throwing clothes into a large suitcase.

"Wha—what's going on?"

"I'm leaving, Jack."

He pulled the syringe from his arm, threw it down, and tried to stand up.

"You promised me you'd quit."

"I tried to quit, Jill. You know I tried. But it was a really bad day at work today."

"I heard. I heard you got fired because you're always either drunk or all strung up."

Tears were streaming down her pale cheeks. Jack finally managed to get on his feet.

"That's why I need you to stay. I don't have anything else anymore. You're all I've got now, Jill. You're all I've got."

"Not anymore."

She slammed the suitcase shut and latched it.

"Jill, wait . . ."

He grabbed her arm and she shook him off.

"You haven't shaved or showered in days. You live in filth. And you don't even stay sober long enough to notice. I stayed with you longer than I should have because I felt sorry for you. But I can't now. Not any longer."

Jack stumbled out of the apartment, in his underclothes in broad daylight, as Jill's cab was leaving.

"Come back!" he shouted. Judgmental eyes peered out every window at him. "Come back. Come back, please."

* * *

All Jack had for food was some pastrami and some rye bread, and the bread had gone completely stale. As it was unfit for human consumption, he found himself sitting on a park bench, throwing bread crumbs to the pigeons. His only friend, Gary, sat beside him.

"I thought you'd given up the drugs," Gary said, after Jack had finished telling him about everything that had happened that day. "The heroin and the booze."

"I thought I had, too," Jack said. "But I keep coming back to them."

"So, what are you going to do now?"

Jack stroked the thick stubble on his chin.

"I don't know. But I can't stay here. There's no reason anymore. I don't have the job. I don't have Jill. They were the only things holding me here."

"Where will you go?"

"Away from here. I just need to get away from here. I don't belong. I never have." He tossed a thick chunk of the stale bread to a couple birds who were fighting over a small crumb. "That's how I've always felt. Like I belong . . . I don't know . . . somewhere else."

"Is there any place specific you've ever really enjoyed? Some happy memory from your childhood?"

"That's just the thing, Gary. I have no memories. I've been working at the same job for the last couple of years. Before that, I don't remember anything. No school or friends or hobbies. My past is a complete blank to me."

"That's no surprise," Gary said, crumbling another piece of the rye bread to crumbs in his fist. "You've killed so many brain cells with the drugs and booze it's amazing you can even remember this morning."

"That's not quite true," Jack said, staring into the distance, into nothing. "I remember my parents. I remember the little farm I grew up on. And ever since I can remember, my folks told me, 'Son, you're special. You were born to do great things.' You know what?" He chucked another slice of stale bread into the grass. "They were wrong."

Gary stood up and brushed the stray crumbs off his overcoat.

"Don't do anything rash," he said. "Maybe you're right. Maybe a change of scenery will do you good." He and Jack shook hands. "Good luck."

* * *

When Jack made it back to the apartment, there was a package waiting for him at the door. There was an envelope labeled "From Mom and Dad" on top of a box in blue wrapping paper. Jack picked up the gift box. The blue paper was decorated with paisley insignia, and a big red bow held a tag in place that read: "To Jack, With Love, From Mom and Dad. Would you kindly not open until . . ."

He opened the envelope and found a single plane ticket inside.

"Hmm," he said to himself, studying the ticket. "Why not?"

**_A/N - Hope nobody's too offended by what I did to Jack. Had to give him a personality somehow._**


	3. The Ocean on His Shoulders

_Disclaimer - I own no legal rights to anything in this story._

1960.

Mid-Atlantic.

"Can I get you something, honey?"

Jack looked up, still tracing the tattoo on his right wrist with the tip of his left forefinger.

The stewardess smiled at him. Jack wanted desperately to ask for something strong to calm his nerves, feared the words would come out even if he tried not to say them. But he reminded himself that he had decided this would be the first day of the rest of his life, and virtue won over.

"No thanks."

The stewardess leaned in closer.

"Is this your first flight?" she asked in a cool Southern accent.

She was very pretty. Thick, straw-colored hair was tied into a pony tail beneath her jaunty cap. Beneath that, long eyelashes curled above brown doe eyes. Beneath- that, pouty lips protruded above a gracefully sloping chin. The nametag, pinned on the navy blazer above the white shirt stretched tight against her physique, read: "VIVIENNE."

Jack laughed nervously.

"Is it that obvious?"

Vivienne nodded.

"Let me assure you, honey, there's nothin' to worry about. This is one of the safest ways to travel."

"Yeah. That's what they say. But it doesn't make sense. This thing's so big and heavy. What happens if it just falls out of the sky?" Jack smelled Vivienne's perfume, plum and sweet lilacs, as she leaned in even closer and gently touched his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I don't really travel. Ever."

"I'm Vivienne."

"I know. I mean, I saw your nametag. I'm Jack. Jack Wynand."

She held out her hand and he took it. Her neatly manicured fingernails felt good against his palm. _Jill who?_ The woman who had shared his apartment for the past several months, who had left him heartbroken and humiliated the other day, was quickly fading from his memory. For the first time in a long time, Jack was in a good mood.

"It's not that I'm afraid of death," Jack said. "Just of pain. Just of being horribly, unrecognizably mangled."

"So, Jack. If you don't travel, what made you decide to finally take the gamble?"

Jack reached into his pocket and brought out his brown leather wallet, flipping it open to show the pretty flight attendant the black-and-white inside.

"My parents. They finally decided to leave the farm and see Europe. I'm meeting them there."

"That's so cute," Vivienne said. She sounded sincere, but maybe Jack was just swayed by the intoxicating effect of her nearness. "Well, if there's anythin' at all I can get you . . ."

"Actually, Vivienne, I'll take a scotch and soda."

Vivienne winked at him and turned. As she retreated down the aisle, Jack couldn't help admiring her long legs and the way her tiny navy skirt hugged her butt. Maybe today would be a good day after all. He promised himself he would only have the one drink and reached for his pack of cigarettes and book of matches, the one vice he hadn't vowed to give up. He closed his eyes and fantasized about his flight attendant's return as he struck a match and lit his cigarette.

He inhaled deeply, opening his eyes to watch the other end of the cigarette turn orange, then shook the match out and looked around the plane.

Jack tugged on his sweater. It was khaki with tiny black anchors, and for some reason, he had felt it was appropriate for this trip, but it felt uncomfortable and scratchy against his body. His chin felt scratchy as well. He had shaved for the photo for his passport, but the stubble had grown back thick already.

He blew a few smoke rings then picked up the package in blue wrapping that was sitting in his lap to examine it again. He held it to his ear, shock it a couple times, and then turned his attention back to the neatly printed tag.

"To Jack, With Love, From Mom and Dad. Would you kindly . . ."

As he stared at the words, he begin to feel oddly groggy. Feeling, for the first time since he boarded the plane, completely comfortable and at ease, he closed his eyes to give them a little rest, then allowed himself to doze off completely. Only for a few moments . . .

The next thing he knew, people were screaming and the plane was hurtling straight into the ocean.

* * *

Jack's head burst out of the water. He coughed and sputtered, ejecting water from his lungs, trying to inhale oxygen. The ocean was lit by moonlight and burning oil. As Jack thrashed against the water, pieces of luggage drifted by.

Slowly, the panic wore away, and Jack felt more at ease in the water. He begin to make easy strokes around the water, just like he remember in the old watering hole back on the farm. Soon, he saw a pair of shoes attached to long, shapely legs.

"Vivienne!"

But when he swam to her, he found she no longer had a face. Beneath what was left of her white shirt and navy blazer and skirt, her body was completely charred. All that was left to positively identify her was the nametag, still shiny against her breast.

Jack saw other charred bodies tossed with the tide, and he felt cold all over, not just from the water. A large chunk of the wing came floating across the surface, and he latched onto it. He was submerged from the neck down, the ocean on his shoulders.

He hoped he would just float to shore like a piece of drift wood, but he knew that wasn't the most likely ending to his scenario. He had no idea how far from shore he was, and it was only a matter of time before his legs attracted a school of sharks, or until his muscles gave out and he slipped stiffly into the ocean to slowly drown. Waves crashed over the wing, filling his mouth with salt.

Then he saw it. A light piercing the darkness. He must have seen it before now, must have mistaken the beam for moonlight. A lighthouse stood only a few yards from him, and the tide was taking him right to it.

Within feet Jack abandoned the piece of wreckage and dove under the water, doing the breast stroke to race the rest of the distance to the lighthouse. He finally was able to grab onto a concrete step and pull himself out of the freezing water. Here, tall lamp fixtures shaped like mugs of foaming beer (at least in Jack's imagination) illuminated the stairway up to two giant doors, one of which was already ajar.

Jack's water-logged anchor sweater felt heavy as he stood in the doorway, lingering a moment to let some of the excess water drip away. He took a step forward, and then he heard a long creak and a loud slam. The door was shut behind him.

* * *

"_The wind_," he thought. "_It's got to be the wind."_

He leaned hard against the entrance, but the heavy door wouldn't budge. He was trapped in pitch blackness.

Then a light flicked on. Then another and another. Somewhere a record began to play, and Jack could hear Bobby Darrin's voice crooning "Beyond the Sea."

"Hello. Anyone there?"

There was a huge bust in the center of the room. It looked like the rounded head of a man with an imposing stare and a thick mustache. Above the statue, a red banner proclaimed: "No Gods or Kings. Only Man." Beneath the statue, a plaque read: "In what country is there a place for people like me?"

"Hello?" Jack called again. He walked around the statue and came to a flight of stairs. As he started walking down them, more lights flickered on to illuminate his path. Bobby Darrin's singing grew louder.

In the room at the bottom of the stairs were three round shields, attached to the walls, bearing the words "Science", "Art", and "Industry." The three shields formed a triangle, and at the center of that triangle, there was a hole in the floor leading straight into the ocean. Bobbing in that hole was a giant bronze sphere. Jack cautiously stepped closer to the sphere. He could make out words etched into its surface in Latin. _"__Totus valde res flow in urbs." _"All good things flow into the city."

Jack stepped around and found an opening in the sphere. A gangplank led over the water into the sphere, straight up to a lever. Attached to the lever was a sign, decorated with a 1930's style cartoon of a man pulling with all of his might on the lever, and the words, "Pull, would you kindly?"

"Why not?" Jack muttered.

He threw the sign to the side and yanked on the lever. The sphere shook, knocking Jack off balance and throwing him into a seat cushioned with red satin. Two enormous panes of glass extended from the top and bottom of the opening, connecting in the center. Then, much too Jack's horror, the entire contraption began to submerge beneath the surface of the water.

* * *

A canvas screen dropped over the glass encasing, and a film projector next to Jack came to life, projecting a reel of film onto the canvas.

A man in a suit spoke to the camera. He was a balding man with a thick mustache, and Jack soon recognized him from the monument in the lighthouse. Even in black-and-white, the man's beady eyes and chiseled jaw were a fierce sight to behold.

"I'm Andrew Ryan, and I'm here to ashk you an important question," the man said, tugging on a meerschaum pipe. When he spoke he barely concealed a harsh Scottish burr. "Ish a man not entitled to the shweat of hish own brow?" He waved his pipe dramatically. "'No!' criesh the man in Washington. 'It belongsh to the poor.' 'No!' criesh the man in the Vatican. 'It belongsh to God.' 'No!' shays the man in Moscow. 'It belongsh to everyone.'" His flashing eyes seemed like they would melt the film. "I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose shomething different. I chose the impossible. I chose . . ."

The canvas shot up, and Jack's jaw dropped as he watched a squid bob above what looked like an impressive city skyline.

"_Rapture_!"

It all made sense now, Jack thought. He'd never gotten on a plane. He was still in his bed in his trashy apartment, a needle stuck in his arm, seeing pink elephants. Or, in this case, an entire city at the bottom of the ocean.

Jack could see flashing neon lights and skyscrapers just inches beyond the transparent glass keeping the ocean outside of his vessel. The Scottish burr continued.

"A place where the artist would not fear the censor. Where the scientisht would not be bound by petty morality. Where the great would not be constrained by the shmall. And, by the shweat of your brow, Rapture can be your city, too."

Jack was now approaching a huge ring in the side of one of the imposing buildings. His vessel passed through and began ascending up a long, vertical tunnel.

* * *

The bronze sphere broke the surface of the water and the glass panels retracted. Jack stood up, wobbled around until feeling returned to his legs, and then stepped onto what seemed like dry land. A red banner, like the one he had seen in the lighthouse, proclaimed: "Welcome to Rapture."

Outside of the transparent walls of wherever Jack was, he could see exotic ocean life travelling through the expansive city scape.

"This is some trip," he said.

Then the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He was suddenly conscious of not being alone. He took a step back, slowly, studying his surroundings.

He heard a metallic scraping. Spinning around, he saw sparks as a monkey wrench scraped against an iron railing. Then, whatever was holding the wrench charged at him.

He threw himself out of the way, just as the wrench crashed down next to his ear. The person wielding it barely looked human. The skin around one eye was puffy and horrendously swollen, the mouth and chin saggy and deformed. The thing jerked the wrench back and lunged again.

"This is a bad trip," Jack said, backing away more quickly. "This is a very bad trip."

The strange being swung the wrench sideways at him, and as Jack lunged back, he tripped over the iron railing and went hurtling down to the next story.

* * *

A foggy haze came and went, back and forth, in Jack's brain as he collapsed in and out of consciousness. Soon, he saw twisted lips below a mask with bunny ears.

"Doesn't look like this fishy's got any ADAM on him."

A loud clanging came from somewhere in the distance.

"You hear that?" another voice said. Jack recognized the thing that had tried to clobber him with the monkey wrench. "Let's bug!"

"Weak! You're a weak chopper!" the thing with bunny ears said. "Yellow. Always have been."

"This little fish ain't worth toeing it with no Big Daddy."

The thing with bunny ears leaned in so Jack could feel his warm breath.

"You'll be no better off with the metal Daddy, little fish. See you floating in the briny."

Blackness.

* * *

Jack came to again to the sound of labored breathing. He found himself looking at the tip of an industrial drill bit.

"Look, Mr. Bubbles, an angel."

Jack's eyes turned towards the fragile voice. It looked like a little girl in a dirty pink dress, but her hair and skin were coated in seaweed and barnacles, and her eyes were just two large white saucers where pupils should be. Her lips were chapped and swollen, with slimy pink spit bubbles in the corners.

"No. He's still breathing. Don't worry. I'm sure he'll be an angel soon."

Blackness.

* * *

Jack could hear voices, distant and echoing, as if they were at the other side of a tunnel.

"What's it look like, Doc?"

A teenage boy's voice, not possibly any older than eighteen.

"Look at his arm."

A woman's voice, low and husky.

"Nice tattoos. I like the chain links."

"No. The needle prick on his arms."

"The guy doesn't look like a splicer."

"I don't think it's EVE. I don't think this man's ever even heard of ADAM. Probably some other more common drugs."

"Never thought I'd see the day I'd be relieved to see someone was _only_ a heroin junky."

This last statement came from another, much softer, voice, with a sweet Irish lilt.

"I know everyone in Rapture," the same voice continued. "And I've never seen this man before in my life. What's he doing here?"

"I think he's cute," another Irish voice, softer and sweeter, said.

"You thought Andrew Ryan was cute, sister."

"You know I hate the bastard. But Andrew Ryan's still gorgeous at any age."

"We can't just leave him out here," the lower female voice said. "Splicers'll tear him apart."

"I think that's precisely what we can do," the slightly softer female voice said.

Then Jack lapsed, once again, into complete unconsciousness.

**_A/N - If you enjoyed, then review, would you kindly?_**


	4. Welcome to Rapture

_DISCLAIMER - I Own Nothing, Nothing!_

_**A/N – Here's the chapter where I'm going to start taking a lot more liberties. Bear with me.**_

Jack awakened in the arms of an angel. Her halo was made of golden curls that seemed to shimmer as a beam of light emanated from her smooth, radiant skin. Emerald eyes peered down at Jack from beneath a large pair of glasses.

"It moves," she said, slowly and without even a hint of emotion.

"Neat," came another voice. A young boy, wearing blue jean bib overalls with matching blue cap and gloves, crawled closer, anxiously.

"Here," the woman continued in her emotionless, husky tone. Jack could now see that the glow wasn't coming from her, but from a spotlight high above her head. She pressed a glass bottle to his lips. "Drink this."

Jack took a sip of the flat, bitter liquid.

"What is that?"

"It's a tonic."

"What's a tonic?"

The woman cradling Jack's head rolled her eyes.

"You know, like gin and tonic?" she said. "But without the gin. I'd offer you a proper drink, but old Wilkins drank all our alcohol."

Jack followed her gaze to a weathered old man with a distinct potbelly, wearing an outfit nearly identical to the boy's, but made from orange leather.

The woman poured some more of the tonic into Jack's mouth. He noticed a small picture of a bad with a medical insignia on the bottle's label.

"Medical expert?"

"That's what happens when you let scientists create your beverages. They have to try to be clever by adding little 'boosts' to their tonic water. Memory boost, mood boost, nutrition boost. Twitch here is a big fan of the SportBoost."

"I haven't slept in a month!" the kid said, smiling.

"Where am I?" Jack asked.

"You're in the Footlight Theater," the woman answered. Jack looked around at the fancy red carpet, the spotlights, and the small stage. It made sense. "At the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Welcome to Rapture."

Jack tried to sit up, panicked. Every part of him ached.

"I must be dreaming," he said.

The woman stood up, dropping him hard on his back. Jack moaned loudly.

"This is reality," she said. "The sooner you accept that, the longer you'll live. I'm Dr. Julie Langford. I brought you here, bandaged your wounds."

"Lucky I found a doctor, then."

"Not that lucky, because I'm not that kind of doctor. I'm a botanist."

"Huh?"

"A scientist who studies plants."

"He's asked enough questions." Another woman stepped near to Jack. "It's our turn now."

Jack recognized the Irish accent he had heard somewhere between hazy consciousness and utter blackness. She had silky brown hair, cut into a neat bob, and was studying him intensely with a pair of blue eyes the size of saucers. Her face was composed of rough, sharp angles, and she was wearing a man's outfit, a dirty white tank top and gray trousers, that hugged her distinctly feminine curves.

"First of all, why'd we bring you here? You're not going to be any good to us if you can't even stand up."

It burnt like Hell, but Jack somehow managed to find his way to his knees. He reached out, but no one offered their hand to help him up. Twitch looked like he was considering it, but one look from the Irish girl's flashing blue eyes made him stand relatively still, though he kept tapping his foot and cracking his fingertips.

Jack slowly stood up. The aching began to dull, and the theater started coming into focus. There was another girl standing to the side. She resembled the Irish girl, with the same silky brown hair, but worn long, down to her chest. She was noticeably younger and shorter, wearing a woman's blouse and skirt that were torn, filthy, and generally worse for wear, a revolver protruding from the skirt tight against her waist. She was the only woman, out of the three in the theater, wearing a fresh coat of make-up.

"We couldn't ha' just left 'im to those t'ings out there, Evelyn."

"I don't see why we couldn't ha', Teagan." As she turned to face the younger girl, Jack noticed a revolver tucked into the small of her back.

"Those . . . _things_ . . ." Jack said. "That attacked me. Zombies?"

Dr. Langford laughed.

"Zombies?"

"Sounds like somebody reads too many dime novels," Teagan said.

"Those weren't zombies," Dr. Langford added. "Those were Splicers."

"Splicer? What's a splicer?"

"You really are new to Rapture," Evelyn said.

"You ask too many questions," Dr. Langford said, "and we don't have time to answer them all right now."

"Now then," Evelyn said, pacing, "who are you, and what are you doing here?"

Jack looked past her, to the row of silent faces beyond. A muscular figure, nearly seven feet tall, in a V-neck; an eerily thin Black man in what had once been an expensive suit; a short man with the facial structure of a weasel, with thin, jagged mustaches and a wide-brimmed hat; another muscular figure, nearly the same size as the first, covered in ammunition and holding a Tommy gun.

"I . . . I was in a plane crash."

"In the middle of the ocean? How did you survive?"

"I . . . I don't know. I managed to swim to this lighthouse, and I got in some sort of . . . bronze bubble . . ."

"Impossible!" Evelyn snapped. "The bathyspheres haven't been operational. No one in or out of Rapture for t'e past six mont's."

"I don't think he's lying, sister," Teagan said, taking a timid step closer to Jack. "Looks to me like he's tellin' the truth."

"What if he is?" Evelyn demanded. "This is still ridiculous. We can't affor' to add a newbie who doe'n't know a splicer from a zombie to the group. He makes one false step down here, he gets himself killed, and takes all of us down with him. If he hasn't already killed us all by leading a bunch of bloody splicers here."

"I'm not an idiot," Langford said. "I made sure we weren't followed."

"We're all breathing borrowed air anyway," said the weasel-faced man with the wide-brimmed fedora. "There's nothin' this kid could do that could make us any worse off than we's already is." He tossed a pair of dice into the air and caught them in one hand.

"Easy for you to say, Lucky," said the Hispanic man. "But if I recall right, those big boasts of yours never really paid off at the tables at Sir Prize's Games of Chance."

"Shut up, Pancho." This caused a snicker from the other tall man. "You, too, Giuseppe."

"Quiet, all of yous!" The man in orange leather overalls raised a hand in the air, speaking with a voice as cracked and weathered as his skin. "Ol' Peachy hears somethin'."

"What is it this time, Wilkins?" Evelyn asked.

Peach Wilkins just shushed her and moved toward a door on the side of the theater. Everyone held their breath, and as Peach fidgeted with the lock over the door, the sound of a child's voice reached Jack's ears.

"_There is a land called Lillipoppi, and living there is the LILLIPOP!"_

Peach hunched down and crept out of the theater, into the darkness.

_"I'll go there soon with MR. BUBBLES and we'll search the place from . . ."_

Then choking.

Peach stepped back into the room, gripping a little girl, probably around nine years old, by the neck. She was malnourished, wearing a muddy pink dress, and covered in barnacles, with just wide white discs where eyes should be, and Jack realized he had seen her before.

"Hit the jackpot, Ol' Peachy has!"

The little girl was struggling violently, trying to get free, and Peach was holding on to her like she was a stubborn fish he had just pulled off the line that was trying to flop its way back into the water.

"What are you going to do to her?" Jack asked.

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do to her," Peach said. "I'm going to break her little neck, then I'm going to reach down her throat and scoop out all the yummy ADAM I can eat."

"Wait! That's wrong," Jack said. "She's only a little girl."

"You just say that because you want all of the ADAM fer yerself," Peach said. "Well, Ol' Peachy found her and she's Ol' Peachy's now."

Jack reached over and yanked the pistol from Evelyn's trousers, turning it quickly at Peach. Everyone stepped back.

"Put her down! Now!" Jack ordered.

Peach responded by drawing a pistol of his own and aiming it right back at Jack.

"Go ahead. You want her, you'll have to pry her out of my dead hands."

Jack remembered the car dealership, when an even smaller girl had cried and he would have liked nothing better than to snap her neck. That seemed like years ago now.

"I'm not fooling around, Wilkins. Let the little girl go."

"No! You're new here. You don't understand," Evelyn said. "You think that's just an ordinary child? She's a Li'l Sister now!"

"LET HER GO!" Jack repeated.

"NEVER!" Peach yelled.

"Quiet, both of you!" Giuseppe yelled.

And in the small moment of quiet that followed, a heavy footstep echoed through the theater.

"We're too late," Evelyn said, her voice coming out as dry and cracked as Peach's.

Another footstep sounded, heavy and metallic.

The Little Sister in Peach's grip stopped struggling and smiled. She began to sing.

_"Mr. Bubbles, Mr. Bubbles . . ."_

A low moan, like a whale call, accompanied the footsteps now.

_"Are you there? Are you there?"_

The moaning and the footsteps were less distant now, causing vibrations throughout the auditorium that sent tiny pieces of rubble skittering across the floor.

_"Come and bring me lollies. Come and give me toffees. Teddy bears. Teddy bears."_

_**A/N – Before anyone asks, Evelyn, or any other OC, for that matter, is not replacing Atlas. He'll be making his "appearance" a little later.**_

_**And remember, A Man Reads and Reviews; A Parasite Visits Without Offering any Constructive Criticism.**_


	5. That's a Big Daddy

_Disclaimer - I own no rights to the Bioshock universe._

As the Little Sister finished singing the words "_Teddy bears_", a behemoth dived from one of the balconies. It landed without stumbling, without its knees buckling, staring straight at Peach and the little girl, who was now smiling and laughing.

"_I knew you'd come, Daddy._"

The behemoth was at least ten feet tall, encased in an oversized diving suit. The giant bubble of a helmet was covered in eight small portholes, lit up by red light bulbs, making it impossible to see a face beneath the glass. Its feet were like two large cinder blocks. Its left fist was easily the size of a regular man's head, and in place of a right hand, the other arm gave way to an industrial drill. The figure gave the eerie impression of being, overall, not a figure in a diving suit, but the diving suit itself as a living entity.

"What the hell is that?" Jack asked.

"That," Twitch replied, "is a _big_ Daddy."

Pancho fired the Thompson machine gun at the diving suit, stepping backwards as he did so. The others were running for the exit, except for Peach, who had released his grip on the girl and was now just trembling before the behemoth.

The bullets bounced off the Big Daddy, who continued moving closer to Peach without flinching. Jack stood still, transfixed, unable to look away.

"Ol' Peachy didn't mean anything by it," Wilkins stammered. "I'm letting her go. She's fine. See? She's fine."

"_I don't like him_," the Little Sister said. "_Unzip him, Mr. B! Unzip him!"_

The drill hummed as it began spinning on the end of the Big Daddy's arm. Peach let out a horrified scream as the tip penetrated the center of his chest, and then the end emerged out Wilkins' back.

The Big Daddy pulled its arm back, and the blade stopped spinning after the drill was separated from Wilkins' torso. Peach stood for a moment, unable to do anything but gasp, a hole the size of a basketball in his chest, mangled cloth and little bits of what was left of his ribs visible around the edges. His arms were covered in his own blood, and he was gripping his intestines in his hands. Finally, what was left of him hit the floor.

Then the Big Daddy turned its entire body towards Jack.

"Jack, get outta there!" the sweet Irish voice called.

But Jack couldn't move. He couldn't feel his legs anymore.

The drill swung through the air and struck Jack on the side of the head, sending him backwards to the floor. The Big Daddy took one step forward.

Then the diving suit burst into flames. The Big Daddy stumbled back, writhing and groaning in agony.

Jack looked over his shoulder and saw Teagan. She appeared to be holding a torch in her left hand, until she came closer and Jack realized the hand itself was on fire. As she ran to him, the fire seemed to disappear into her arm until it was extinguished completely.

Teagan grabbed Jack's arm and tugged him to his feet.

"C'mon, Jack! Let's go!"

The Big Daddy's flailing drill grazed Teagan's side. Jack shook himself and ran with her, the two pulling each other toward the door.

The others were already outside the theater. The Big Daddy was putting out the flames with its leather-gloved hand. Then it was charging forward, shoulder first, as smoothly as if it were on ice skates.

"Mr. Touch!" Evelyn called to the tall, thin man in the torn suit. "I think we need your touch."

The man held out both arms, fingers spread out and curled, and then jerked back his wrists. Pieces of rubble lifted off the ground. As Mr. Touch waved his hands as if he was conducting a symphony, the pieces of stone and iron flew to the doorway, blocking the Big Daddy's path. Mr. Touch jerked back his wrists again, and more stones flew from all around the hallway, assembling a wall in front of the lumbering diving suit. The ominous thumping of the creature's fist and drill pounding on the other side of the pile of rubble echoed through the hallway.

Evelyn sighed and then clenched her hands into fists. Ice crystals formed and crawled up her forearm to her knuckles, and then icicles emerged all over her hand. As she opened her fingers, a gust of cold wind blew past Jack, and a layer of ice began to form between the rocks and over the surface of the makeshift wall. Evelyn slowly waved her hand back and forth, lower and lower, directing the cold blast until the wall was covered with a thick sheet of ice.

"A camera!" Giuseppe said. He pointed away from the wall, to a spot by the ceiling where a camera was slowly rotating back and forth, a red light bulb flashing above it. "We need to do something before someone spots the new guy with us."

"Twitch!" Evelyn turned to the boy. "Do your thing."

Twitch smiled and zigzagged over to the corner by the camera. He opened a pouch around his waist and lifted out a small tool kit.

"Twitch is our . . . what does he call it?"

"Skilled hacker," Twitch called. He grabbed a screwdriver and shimmied up the wall like a lizard. The boy was smiling a toothy grin now, gleefully toying with some screws and wires in a hatch on the side of the camera. When the red light bulb blinked out and a green one lit up in its place, Twitch closed the hatch and screwed it tightly shut again.

"We need to keep moving," Evelyn said. She began marching down the hallway, the others following her. "That barrier won't hold that Daddy long."

"Wait a minute," Jack said, running through the crowd, trying to keep stride with Evelyn. "I need some explanations. What's going on here? What was that thing? And how were you able to shoot ice out of your hand?"

"He needs to know _something_," Dr. Langford said, moving closer to Jack. "Mister . . . ?"

"Wynand," Jack offered.

"Mister Wynand," Langford continued. "Do you know what a plasmid is?"

"No."

"You really don't know anything." She let out an exasperated sigh. "A plasmid is a unit of DNA, one that is separated from, and able to replicate independently of, chromosomal DNA. They're essential to the idea of genetic engineering."

Jack nodded in understanding.

"Scientists down here were able to find a way to synthesize plasmids that could be inserted into an individual's DNA. They found a way to allow each individual to personalize his or her own DNA, to devise a better genetic code than the one nature had given them."

"Is that even possible?"

"It wouldn't be. Without ADAM. Scientists discovered the basic components in the belly of a certain sea slug. After a little work in their labs, they were able to devise a drug that could be used to make the genetic structure more malleable. The further scientists developed it, the more unbelievable the plasmids became. Man could lift immovable objects just by pointing, lower objects to sub-zero temperatures with the wave of a hand, start a fire by rubbing two fingers together. But it came at a cost."

"And what was that?"

"It was addictive," Langford continued. "More addictive than any other drug known to man. Both the body and mind became dependent on it."

Jack instinctively rubbed his needle-pricked arm.

"Like we said, those weren't 'zombies' you met," Evelyn said. "They're splicers. ADAM addicts that injected a few plasmids too many. Being deprived of their usual fix warped not only their minds but their bodies. They still hang on t' some o' their human thoughts and feelings, but they need whatever bits of ADAM they can scrape to be even barely lucid."

"Then how come you guys aren't all howling at the moon?"

""Cause we barely touched the stuff," Teagan explained.

"Speak fer yerself," Lucky said, taking off his fedora and wiping the sweat off his brow. "I ain't never touched the stuff."

"We dabbled in splicing, sure," Teagan said. "But we're no splicers. The splicers spliced and spliced until their DNA barely resembled what it was before ADAM. "

"Look," Twitch said. "All you need to know is Splicers want ADAM, Little Sisters harvest the ADAM from the blood of dead Splicers, and Big Daddies protect the Little Sisters."

"We're wasting our breath explaining all this to him," Evelyn said. "We can't keep pullin' 'im out o' harm's way every time he finds somet'in' he don't understand." She turned to Jack. "Hand me back the pistol you took from me, would you?"

Jack placed the gun back in Evelyn's outstretched palm. She snapped back the hammer and pressed the barrel against Jack's forehead.

"What are you doing?" Langford demanded.

"The decent human thing," Evelyn said. "Putting him out of his misery. Better us than anything else that's out there. He nearly got us all killed by that Big Daddy in the theater. If we keep him along with us, he'll only slow us all down. We'll be lucky if it's only 'imself 'e gets killed."

"We had to leave the theater sooner or later," Langford insisted. She pulled a map from her pocket and traced a path across it with her finger. "Now's as good a time as any to head for the Medical Pavillion. We'll need the supplies there."

"You're crazy, Doc," Lucky said. "As if the splicers between here and there ain't bad enough, Medical Pavillion's Steinman's territory."

"It's not worth the risk," Evelyn agreed. "We'd be better off heading for Fort Frolic. There's food there. And drink. And probably shelter from the splicers. It would be more worthwhile than going out o' our way for some gauze tape and boxes of bandages. Those who can't grin and bear their own wounds are just going to get themselves killed, anyway."

"And are you going to be putting your own sister out of her misery, as well?"

Evelyn followed Langford's gaze to Teagan, who was poking at the exposed flesh where her blouse had been torn at the waist by the Big Daddy's drill. The patch of skin was burnt and bleeding.

"Just a flesh wound," Teagan said, trying to manage a smile.

Evelyn frowned and lowered her pistol.

"We can't all go into the Pavillion," she said. "Too big o' a target."

"Then we just send one guy," Lucky said. "Someone expendable."

He looked at Jack.

"Yeah," Giuseppe agreed. "If you're so sure he's going to get himself killed, he might as well die trying to do something useful. If he makes it out alive, maybe he's worth keepin' around after all."

Evelyn stopped marching and looked at the faces in the group for confirmation.

"I'll go with him," Teagan offered.

"You're in no condition to go anywhere," Evelyn insisted.

"I say you send the new guy," Pancho said. "Give him a chance to prove he's worth his salt before you leave him to the dogs."

The others nodded.

"Very well," Evelyn said, slapping Jack across the back. "Looks like you just netted yourself an audition."

_**A/N - To be continued . . .**_


	6. J S Steinman

_Disclaimer – I own nothing . . . nothing!_

_**Kratos-**__**god-slayer-101**__** –**_**Thank you for your reviews. You single-handedly motivated me to write the next chapter. Hope you like it!**

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* * *

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"_This is reality_," Professor Langford had said. "_The sooner you accept that, the longer you'll live_."

Jack was trying to accept that advice, but it was hard to ignore the voice in his head that kept telling him he must be dreaming. After all, he'd had his share of bad trips before. Pink elephants with sharp, nasty teeth and poison, wicked claws. But he'd never imagined a pressurized diving suit with a mind of its own trying to bore his insides out with a drill.

And, if he was dreaming, why was he in so much pain? Every bruise and scrape ached with each step Jack took.

The strangest part, though, was that, as odd as it all was - an entire city on the ocean floor, little girls singing eerie nursery rhymes, strange creatures with a lust for blood, and rag-tag outcasts with the power to control the elements - Jack was taking it a lot better than he thought he should be.

"Hey, watch it!"

He'd been so lost in his own thoughts he'd walked right into the back of the big Italian, Giuseppe.

"Sorry," he muttered.

The company had stopped ahead of him. Evelyn, leading the group, was staring uneasily at something on the ground.

"Dang it," she said. "He's back."

Jack stepped around Giuseppe. When he saw what Evelyn was looking at, he gagged into his hand.

Evelyn noted Jack's recoil with her usual haughty frown.

"Still sure he's the guy, Lucky?"

She gave Jack another look of disgust before calmly returning to the grisly scene in front of her.

What had once been a person was lying crumpled next to a bulkhead, its gender hard to determine, its face torn to shreds and dripping blood. The parts of the face – eyes, nose, lips - were in the wrong places, as if the face had somehow been turned upside down on the head.

Jack moved his hand and took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. It was a bad idea. He inhaled the scent of decaying flesh and it made him cough as he spoke.

"Who's back?"

"J. S. Steinman," Evelyn said. "Rapture's very own serial killer." She took another hard look at the body. "It's fresh.

"Looks like he's definitely back on his home turf," Lucky commented.

"What's the 'J. S.' stand for, anyway?" Pancho asked.

"I always thought it was for 'Johann Sebastian'," Twitch responded. Teagan looked at the boy. "You know, like the composer."

"Steinman was a doctor," Evelyn continued, looking squarely at Jack. "The most respected plastic surgeon in Rapture. Then he started thinking o' himself as an artist . . . and o' people's faces as his canvas. This is how Dr. Steinman's patients turn out nowadays. The lucky ones are still walking around, too spliced up to realize what he did to them."

"We was hopin' the good doc wouldn't still be around," Lucky said. "That he'd be somewhere else, workin' on his 'field research.' Unlucky for you, it looks like the doc is in."

"Still sure you can handle this?" Evelyn said, looking at Jack defiantly.

"You don't have to do this," Teagan insisted, stepping between Jack and her sister. "I'm healin' up just fine. We can all do without the supplies right now."

As she spoke, another drop of blood slipped out between her fingers.

"No," Jack insisted. "I'll do it."

Evelyn passed him a flashlight.

"Here, take this," she said. "Try to stay out o' Steinman's way. But if I see you come out o' the Pavillion, and you ain't carryin' our supplies, you'll wish you'd met Steinman. I'm going to give you a gun. You know how to use it?"

Jack nodded as Evelyn handed him her revolver. The nod was a lie. Still, as he felt the cold steel in his palm, it felt strangely comfortable. The same way it had when he'd taken it from her earlier and held it on Peach. Though he couldn't remember ever touching a weapon before that moment, it felt like it belonged in his hand.

Giuseppe wrenched the bulkhead open and Jack slipped inside.

* * *

When the bulkhead slid shut behind him, Jack was submerged into pitch blackness. He took a deep breath, swallowed, and turned on the flashlight. No turning back now.

The beam of the flashlight revealed a giant, disembodied pair of purple lips around one row of large, yellow teeth. The sign said: "Dandy Dental."

He scanned the expanse, his beam exposing the storefronts of a variety of rundown medical facilities, from dental offices to crematoriums. Jack slowly began his walk to Dr. Steinman's Aesthetic Ideals, not noticing the glowing red light of a security camera as he passed it.

* * *

Andrew Ryan remembered building his mansion on the surface.

He remembered storming down the stairs of his new summer home as it was nearing the end of construction, a brass spigot in his hand.

_"What ish thish?" he demanded, waving the brass piece at the lead contractor, a tall, burly man in a grease-stained shirt._

_"What's what, sir?"_

_"These brrash fittingsh. You're trying to cheat me, you scoundrels. Trying to fleece me out of my harrd earrned money. You musht think shince I've so much of it I'll just let you take it from me. But a wishe man knows when to be frugal. I ashked for for tin fittings, and the tin is all I'm going to pay forr."_

_The man didn't seem at all intimidated, or even ashamed. He just stared Ryan down with his cool, steady eyes._

_"Tin, sir, will not do the trick," he said. "Not unless you plan on spendin' the money you're savin' on those tin pipes of yours by calling the plumber over to fix a leak in your lavatories every week. A job like this demands brass."_

_"Don't try to pull one over on me," Ryan barked. "I'll not be a victim of shome parasite. I asked for tin, and I'll take my chancesh with the tin."_

_"With all due respect, sir," the contractor replied in his Cockney accent, "you won't. I'll pay the difference for the brass fitting if you'd like, sir, out of me own pocket."_

_"And why would you do that?"_

_"Because, I've a reputation to keep up. A house built by Bill McDonagh does not leak."_

_Instantly, Ryan's sour scowl had turned into a hearty laugh._

_"You're a very interesting individual, Mr. McDonagh. Come, sit down with me and let's have a drink . . ."_

Ryan didn't shed a tear, looking back on it. The Great Chain moved, and many were crushed beneath it. Good men and parasites alike.

"I got someone on the monitors."

The voice came from behind Andrew Ryan, a low snarl. Ryan didn't bother to turn around in his chair. He recognized the voice of Sullivan, his chief of security. Sullivan was as short as McDonagh had been tall, with beady eyes, and bushy wisps of hair around his baldness.

"An intruder," Sullivan went on. "First new guy I seen in Rapture since we shut down the bathyspheres. He's in the middle of the Medical Pavilion now."

"Then keep an eye on him, Sullivan," Ryan replied. "That's all."

Ryan listened to the security man's footsteps fall away from his office, then leaned over the microphone and hit the Intercom button.

* * *

Jack was growing closer to the big doors of Aesthetic Ideals when he heard static coming from the loud speakers overhead.

"Wellll, who shent you?" Jack recognized the voice from the film he had watched on the vessel from the lighthouse. The Scottish burr was calm and even, curious if anything. "The CIA wolf or the KGB jackal? It makesh no difference. I don't know how you got here, but I'd advise you go back the way you came. Andrew Ryan isn't shome giddy playboy who can just be shlapped around."

Jack looked around the room. The announcement didn't seem to draw any attention to his presence. It had probably broadcast over the entire city. He sensed no movement, heard no sound but the closing crackle over the loudspeakers, than complete, eerie silence.

He felt across the big doors, looking for a knob for a minute before feeling a button on a panel next to the door. It felt sticky when he pressed it. He examined his hand in the flashlight's glow and realized it was now covered in blood.

The button must have released some kind of catch, because the doors swung open with a chilling _creak_. Jack entered an open foyer, empty except for a few empty chairs, some potted ferns (mostly dead), and some faded newspapers. He followed the hallway to the door marked surgery.

Inside, he waved the beam of the flashlight over steel tables and cupboards, trying to creep silently over the strewn about surgical instruments and debris that littered the floor.

Then his flashlight caught a human hand. He let out a quick gasp. But the hand remained still. Following it with his light, Jack found that the hand belonged to a body that had been savaged in the same manner as the corpse he had seen outside of the Pavilion.

Jack stepped back. There were two more bodies nearby, all three stretched out on hospital gurneys. Beneath each one, words were sprawled in blood. The first one: "Too fat." The second: "Too thin." The third: "Too symmetrical."

Then Jack heard it. A metallic tinkle. Someone was stepping across the surgical instruments on the other side of the room.

Jack quickly turned off the flashlight, hoped he had acted in time. He scrambled behind the nearest cupboard.

The footsteps continued to move around the room.

"I know you're here," a voice said in a smooth-as-cultured-cream British accent. "Come out so I can see you."

As Jack's eyes began to adjust to the dark, he could see a tall, shadowy figure moving around the room.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the figure continued. "I took the Hippocratic Oath. First, do no harm."

Jack held his breath and clutched Evelyn's revolver.

He peered around the side of the cupboard again, but he had lost sight of the shadow.

"Please, let me help you."

The voice seemed to be echoing around the tiny room, bouncing off every corner.

Paper rustled inches from Jack's hand.

As Jack turned his head, he felt the tip of a needle pierce his neck.

* * *

The room was blurry. Jack blinked a couple times. He was still surrounded by the stainless steel cupboards and tables.

He tried to get up, but he was barely able to move an inch. He looked down at his wrists and realized he was held into a medical chair by leather straps.

A bright light was swung in his face.

"I'm sorry," the British voice from earlier said. _J. S._ _Steinman._ "I didn't have as much anesthesia left as I'd hoped. And I'm afraid that was the last of it. We'll just have to do without."

He stepped into the light. Only one eye was visible above a crimson breathing mask and a blood red smock. In the light, Jack could make out stains slightly darker than the rest of the red on Steinman's coat.

Jack struggled against his bonds.

"Calm down," Steinman said. "Can't you see I'm trying to help you? After all, ADAM took away any excuses man has to not be beautiful. And you – forgive me, old boy – are . . . _UGLY!_"

Something caught the light for a second and Jack felt a blade tear across his cheek. He cried out in pain.

Steinman's mask moved in and out as he took several slow, deep breaths, studying the blood on his scalpel and regaining his composure.

"Sorry, old boy."

The mask shifted against the muscles beneath it. Steinman was smiling. He pressed the blade lightly against Jack's cheek. The man in the chair writhed more vigorously against his constraints.

"This is going to hurt," Steinman said. "But it will be worth it. I'm going to make you beautiful . . . like me."

He slowly pulled the mask away.

His second eye was beneath the first one, the right ear where the nose should be and the nose beneath the left ear. He smiled from a pair of lips, slanted diagonally from the right ear towards the cleft in his chin, a pencil mustache between ear and mouth. The face was a Cubist painting sprung to life.

"While you were sleeping, I injected the tiniest dose of ADAM to make your face easier to sculpt. In a few moments, your face will be like a painting." He slid the scalpel across Jack's cheek. "I'll do with a scalpel what Picasso did with a brush."

Jack strained against the straps again. Finally, the old leather off against one of his arms. Jack managed to grab hold of the arm holding the scalpel.

They struggled, the most important arm wrestling match of Jack's life. The tip of the blade stayed pointed at his face, held back by whatever strength Jack could summon. As the blade drew closer, Jack twisted Steinman's wrist. He wrenched it to the side.

The blade drew across Steinman's forehead. Jack brought it back across again, and then, still pressing the knife against his face, drew the blade up the doctor's forehead. Blood flowed down the tear and covered Steinman's face.

The doctor let go of Jack's wrist and turned away, lifting a mirror to study his own reflection.

"It's perfect," he said, his voice noticably weaker. "That's just . . . what it needed . . . a nice splash of color. You have the gift . . . my boy. You'd have made a fine surgeon."

He was dropping to his knees, but Jack wasn't satisfied. He thrust the scalpel into Steinman's back repeatedly as the surgeon collapsed.

He waited, just watching Steinman's body lie still on the floor, before using the scalpel to cut through the rest of the leather straps.

Stepping over the body, Jack felt a little guilty about the satisfaction he took in Steinman's mutilated face. He opened one of the stainless steel cupboards and began pulling the contents of the shelves down into the fold of his sweater.

Running out of room, Jack spotted a leather bag among the rubbish on the floor, emptied the contents, and began filling it with the bandages, gauze, and drugs he found in the cupboard. Returning to the shelves, he found a strange device. Jack pressed a button and it began speaking in a young woman's voice.

"_He hasn't come to see me_," the voice on the device said. "_Not since the incident at Kashmir's on New Year's Eve. Dr. Steinman seems very interested in my case, though. Says he's going to fix me right up, make me the prettiest girl in Rapture. He's so attentive. So sweet…"_

He hit the next button to make it stop. He returned to the bag he'd found and noticed a crate nearby. The lid was placed on loosely. Jack opened it and looked inside. Buried beneath more medical supplies was a short-wave radio.

Jack switched it on and scanned the frequencies. He caught a man's voice intermixed with the static, and kept tuning until the voice was finally clear.

"Ya can hear me now, can't you?" The voice spoke in a pleasant Irish brogue with an almost sing-song rhythm. "You're the new fellow, ay? I've been using a hacked security bot to keep an eye on you. Nice work on Steinman, by the way. About time someone did somethin' 'bout that sick bastard."

Jack heard a sound and looked up. Many legs were shuffling into the Medical Pavilion, towards surgery.

"We don't want to hurt you," not-quite-human voices were bellowing. "We just want someone to talk to."

"Bloody splicers!" the voice on the radio swore. "Listen, boyo. Stay calm and we'll get you outta there. I'm Atlas, and it's in both o' our best interests that you stay alive."

_**A/N - More to come . . .**_


	7. Atlas is Watching

_Disclaimer – I own nothing . . . nothing! Except my copies of the Bioshock games, of course._

_**A/N – Sorry it's been so long since the last chapter. I've been working on another writing project (original fic) so this kinda got pushed to the back burner, and I really haven't had a good break to get back to this until now. I'd like to take some time to thank all of you for your reviews since my last chapter.**_

_**Kratos-god-slayer-101 – **_**Hope you're still reading this, and the cliffhanger was enough to keep you hanging on for the month or so since my last chapter.**

_**female bioshock fan – **_**I definitely do have specific actors in mind for each major role in the story, but, like you said, I think it's great that readers can come up with their own "cast" for the "movie" as they read. The actors I choose do affect how I portray the characters. I feel like my personal choice for Andrew Ryan's pretty obvious.**

_**nathan-p – **_**Better late than never, they say, so I definitely forgive you for waiting so long to review. I find it interesting that you say I have a "talent" for accents. Usually, I avoid typing in accents because in the past I just felt it looked ridiculous when it was typed out. In this case, I think imagining specific actors for each character has helped.**

_**A/N –Anyway, I hope all of you are still reading, and that you enjoy the next chapter.**_

The light past the doorway sent Splicer shadows over Jack.

Jack reached to his hip for the revolver Evelyn had given him.

"Ya got five Splicers comin' your way," the voice on the radio said. "An' no more 'an six bullets in your gun. I can get ya out o' here, but you're goin' to have to trust me completely, and do everything exactly as I say. I won't leave you twistin' in the wind."

Jack began to back away from the doorway, slowly. He buckled the radio to his belt.

"First thing," Atlas said. "Hold on tight to that bag o' yours, turn, and run."

The first Splicer stepped through the doorway, issuing a barely human growl.

Jack did what Atlas said. He grabbed the handle of the leather satchel tightly, turned, and started running.

"Now if you keep runnin', you should find a back door. That'll lead you into the backrooms of Dandy Dental."

Jack slammed against the backwall, running his hand against it until he found a handle. He yanked the door open and leaped through to the other side, slamming the door behind him.

The dentist's office was covered in fallen file cabinets and smashed desks. Jack vaulted on top of them and over them, hurtling through reception windows as he made his way through the building.

"Come back here!" a pathetic voice whined after him from a distance. "We don't want to hurt you! We just want to talk."

"Don't leave just yet," Atlas said. "Take a deep breath and look at that shelf above you. You should see a box marked 'EVE.' You're gonna want to take that with you."

Jack found the box and pulled it down into the bag.

"Right next to that, you should see a big red bottle. Now would you kindly grab hold of it?"

As soon as Jack's fingers touched the bottle, his mysterious guide yelled, "Now run."

Jack took the bottle from the shelf and pounded towards the door at the other end of the room. The Splicers were crawling through the window after him, tripping and falling in a heap behind him.

"Now, head through that bulkhead to your right," Atlas said. "That should take you through a tunnel to the Metro Station."

Jack strained against the lever on the door. The Splicers had found their way upright again and were gaining on him as he tried to get the stubborn handle to turn.

"Hey, don't go nowhere!" one of them yelled. "We ain't gonna hurt ya. Just wanna talk to somebody."

The crowbar he was striking his own hand viciously with said otherwise.

The bulk head finally unlocked and swung open. Jack ran through, strained again to pull the massive door shut behind him, and then kept pulling until he heard the lock click back into place.

"Good work, lad," Atlas said. "That'll hold the Splicers off fer a li'l while. Now quick, head to the end o' the tunnel."

Steel clanged against steel behind Jack. He could hear the Splicers on the other side shouting curses as they smashed the door with their weapon. He took Atlas' advice and started running down the tunnel.

"Now look at the bottle you took."

Jack opened the satchel and carefully removed the bottle, letting the bag drop to his feet. It was a heavy glass vial filled with a gelatinous red substance. There was a hypodermic needle attached to the side.

"What is it?"

"It's a plasmid," Atlas said. "Called Electro Bolt."

The big door finally opened. The Splicers were moving down the tunnel towards Jack, and they looked angry.

"Hopefully the little bit of ADAM that psychopath Steinman filled ya with is enough to make this work," Atlas said. "Take a full hypo o' the plasmid, and inject it into your arm."

Jack rolled up his left sleeve and looked at the needle marks.

"But, I . . ."

"No time to argue, boyo! Those Splicers aren't getting' any further away!"

Jack ripped the hypo from the side of the bottle and tried to stick the needle through the stopper on top. His hand was trembling as the Splicers continued to move towards him. He backed up, moving closer and closer to another bulkhead on the other end of the tunnel.

Finally, the needle went through. Jack pulled up the plunger, filling the hypo with the strange, red substance.

He jabbed the needle into his arm and pushed the plunger.

An agonizing spasm hit every muscle in his body. Then it hit again, harder. Then, a pain worse than anything he'd felt before.

The bottle fell from his hand and shattered.

It was as if a thousand volts of electricity were flowing through his entire body. It wasn't just his skin that hurt. It felt like every organ and every blood cell inside of him was crackling with an electric charge.

The pain knocked him to the floor, helpless against the approaching Splicers. Even there, the sensation caused Jack to writhe in agony.

"Steady now," Atlas said, his tones reassuringly even. "Your genetic code is being rewritten. Just stay calm and everything'll be fine."

There were five Splicers staring Jack down, and one of them had a revolver. He pulled the trigger, and the shot connected next to Jack's ear, the ringing adding to his already intense discomfort.

A security camera, attached to a miniature helicopter propeller, came flying down the tunnel. The light bulb beside it was shining green, and a spotlight emanating from beneath the camera seemed to distract the attacking Splicers. Then a machine gun attached below the camera began firing a barrage at the huddle of Splicers.

The barrage seemed to be only irritating to the monsters, but it was distracting, and then Jack realized the shots were missing the Splicers and punching holes into the tunnel wall behind them. Water began pouring in at the Splicers' feet.

Jack had climbed a small staircase on his way to his end of the tunnel, giving him a few inches above the growing pool.

He stood up. Sparks of electricity were dancing off the back of his hand and his fingertips were glowing a vivid electric blue.

"Now!" Atlas yelled. "Zap 'em!"

"But how do I . . . ?"

"Do it now!"

Jack concentrated hard and opened his fingers. A bolt of lightning extended from his fingernails, hitting the water.

The water lit up. The Splicers shook as electricity shot up and down their bodies. Jack looked away as sparks flew everywhere.

When he looked again, the Splicers were floating in the shallow pool. Limp, smoking corpses.

"First time plasmid's a real kick from a mule," Atlas said, obviously gleeful. "But there's nuttin' like a fistfolla loitnin', now is 'ere?"

Jack retrieved the bag and opened the other bulkhead.

* * *

A bedraggled Jack was met on the other side by applause. Even Evelyn seemed relieved to see him back in one piece.

"Told ya da kid would make it," Lucky said.

Giuseppe and Pancho both groaned and handed wads of cash over to the man in the white suit. Even then, they were quick to run over and pat Jack on the back.

"Didn't do so bad after all, did he?" Giuseppe asked.

"No," Evelyn said. Her eyes were something approaching warmness as she looked at Jack. Or, at least the closest to warmness he'd seen her look at anybody but her sister with. "He di'n't at all."

Then, she did something that struck Jack harder than anything else she'd done. She smiled at him.

Jack handed her the bag.

Evelyn's smile doubled in size when she saw what was at the top of the bag. She held the box up high, like a prehistoric hunter presenting his trophy before a campfire to his tribe.

"Ladies and gents, we have EVE!"

Everyone cheered.

Evelyn put the box down and continued to rummage through the bag. She tossed a bottle of peroxide and some gauze to Langford.

"Doc, go ahead and see to sis's wounds, would ya?"

"There's something else," Jack said.

Evelyn's expression grew serious again.

Jack unclipped the shortwave radio from his belt and handed it to Evelyn.

"Hello there, miss," the singsong Irish lilt on the other end said. "I take it you're the leader o' the pack?"

"Who is this?"

"You can just call me 'Atlas'. Everybody else does."

Evelyn scoffed.

"What a loada . . ." Lucky began to say, but Evelyn held out a hand and glared at him, and everybody silently held their breath.

"Where are you speaking from?"

"Don't mince words, do ya? Well, I can respect that. I'm in a secure location. I'm safe. But I can't leave. Too many Splicers outside the door."

"And how do you know who we are?"

Atlas' hacked security bot flitted through the crowd.

"Neat-o," Twitch said.

"I want to help you," Atlas said.

"And why should I trust you?"

"Supposing I told you I knew a way out o' Rapture. Then ya wouldn't really ha' a choice, would ya?"

Now everyone stared intensely at the radio in Evelyn's hand. She smacked her dry lips together silently for a minute, and then she was finally able to get two more words out.

"Go on."

"You're gonna need weapons," Atlas continued. "I happen to know the location of a smuggler's cove in Port Neptune. But I'm gonna need ya to do a small favor for me while you're there."

"Yeah? What kinda a favor?"

"I've a family. A beautiful wife and a wee boy. Last I knew, they were at Neptune's Bounty. I need someone to go get them and bring them to me safe and sound."

"This is ridiculous," Evelyn said. "Even if you're tellin' the truth. Even if your family did somehow sorvive. There's no way we're goin' out o' our way to search Neptune Bounty for a coupla helpless bodies, and no way we could escort 'em through Rapture and still come out o' it wit' all o' us alive."

"I've a plan," Atlas insisted. "I can get ya all back to the surface. When ya find the weapons it'll prove to you I know what I'm talkin' about. But we can't do business 'til I know Moira and Patrick are alive."

"What should we do?" Evelyn asked, turning her wide eyes to the group. She seemed genuinely bewildered.

"Too risky," Mr. Touch said softly.

"I gotta agree," Lucky said. "Don't like the odds on this one. We got a better chance bunkin' down in Fort Frolic than takin' our chances at Port Neptune."

"Or taking our chances on another stranger," Giuseppe added.

"But we need guns," Pancho said. "Even if he's lying, we're no worse off taking his advise than we are just wanderin' around Rapture."

"He's right," Julie Langford said. "Eventually, we're going to run out of food or drink, if something doesn't kill us first. If there's any chance at all of getting back above water . . ."

Evelyn turned from the doctor to the young woman whose arm Langford was busy wrapping in gauze.

"What say you, Teagan?"

Teagan blinked a couple times, her long, thick eyelashes beating her cheeks, and then looked back and forth between her sister and Jack.

"I think we should ask him."

The security bot floated into Jack's face.

"Listen, Jack," Atlas' voice said. "I know it's hard for you being new down here. And I know you must feel like the unluckiest man in the world right now. But I have a family. And you're the only hope I have of ever seeing my wife and child again. Please. Go to Port Neptune. Find my family. And I'll help keep you alive."

Jack lifted the revolver from his waist band, felt its heft.

"I'm going to Neptune's Bounty," he said. "You can come with me if you want to."

Teagan stood up.

"Then I'm coming too."

Evelyn took a shotgun from Pancho and cocked it.

"Then we all are."

_**A/N – That's all for now. I plan on posting more some time, but it will probably be a while.**_

_**In the meantime, please Read & Review.**_


	8. Neptune's Bounty

_Disclaimer - I own no rights to the Bioshock universe. Though I'd love to own my own little slice of Rapture._

_**A/N – I decided to do one more small chapter before diving back into my other writing project. Hope you like it.**_

_**Kratos-god-slayer-101 – **_**Things are starting to heat up, indeed! Keep reading.**

"The fastest way to Port Neptune's gonna be through that bathysphere," Atlas said. "But ya might not all be able to make it in one trip. Gonna be a pretty tight squeeze for nine people."

"There's no way we're splittin' up," Evelyn said into the radio. "Not when you could be leadin' us straight int' a trap."

"Suit yourself, t'en. But it's not gonna be t'e most comfortable ride."

The golden orb was floating beneath the "Metro Station" sign. Twitch was the first to jump in.

Jack followed as the others poured into the bathysphere, trying to find room on the red vinyl seats. When Jack climbed in, only standing room in the center of the sphere remained.

Evelyn was the last in. She shared the center with Jack, her body forced against his.

"Sorry," Jack said, embarrassed.

"Don't be," Evelyn replied, breathing gently in his face. "Like he said, it's gonna be a squeeze."

"Everyone cozy?" Atlas said. "Then would you kindly press the button for Neptune's Bounty on the control panel?"

Jack obliged, and the bathysphere lurched, shaking its inhabitants. The rumbling pushed Jack and Evelyn even closer together, caused their chests to rub against each other's.

* * *

Jack tried to concentrate on the viewing panel, watching Rapture's skyline as the bathysphere made its way to its destination, passing through a ring and into a winding tunnel.

The bathysphere lurched to a stop at the next Metro Station. This time, Jack and Evelyn tried not to make eye contact. He studied the ceiling of the sphere while she brushed her bangs out of her enormous blue eyes.

They were jostled by elbows and shoved around the sphere as the others pushed their way out, eager to have room to breathe and their feet on solid ground. Jack and Evelyn were the last to hop out.

Giuseppe stood at the gate at the end of the station.

"Knock, knock."

He bent down and grabbed the bottom of the gate, decorated with an etching of waves and fish. The he threw the gate open.

"You've arrived at Neptune's Bounty," Atlas said.

Jack turned and noted the security camera, with its green light, suspended from the ceiling above the bathysphere, aimed at the band of survivors he had joined up with.

* * *

He was astonished as he stepped through the gate. He could still see the ocean beyond the glass walls around him, and he could still watch the fish swimming by.

But he was also looking at water _inside_ the dome. What he was seeing looked like a typical seaside fishing resort. The air smelled like salt water and sea food. And a series of wooden docks rose above what looked like the sea.

"There's a system that allows water to drain from the ocean into the wharfs," Langford explained. "But it regulates the water level so the docks don't flood. You're looking at Rapture's main source of food."

Across the water, Jack could see two Splicers hauling an empty fishing net out of the water and throwing it back in again. Another Splicer kept casting his fishing line in, only to immediately reel it up again.

"They look occupied," Atlas said. "I'd try not to disturb 'em if I were you."

Jack reached for Evelyn's revolver at his hip. Its grip felt reassuring in his hand. Evelyn took her place at the head of the group and crept slowly onto the docks. The wood _creaked_ loudly under her feet.

The Splicers looked up for a second, and then went back to their fishing.

"There's caves at t'e other end of Fontaine's Fisheries," Atlas said. "Those would be the smuggler's coves where y'll find all t'e weapons you'll need."

The group marched down the docks and turned towards a gate below a giant neon fish, glowing letters advertising the fisheries. Giuseppe lifted the gate.

The smell of rotting fish was overpowering here.

"Frank Fontaine used this place as a legal front for his smugglin' operation," Atlas said. "Used to make a good livin' bringin' contraband from the surface an' sellin' it on the black market. Up until Rapture Security took 'im down.

"Which reminds me, try an' stay clear of Sullivan, Ryan's faithful Doberman. That's the biggest problem wi' this pile o' scrapheap we used t' call a city. The bloody king of Rapture'll let any sociopathic murderer kill wi' immunity if they strike his fancy. You've already dealt with Steinman, Ryan's favorite medical whiz. He's a level-headed individual compared to Security Chief Sullivan and Sander Cohen, the poet laureate. An' neither of 'em hold a candle to Li'l Miss Doctor Frankenstein."

"Frankenstein?"

"That's my pet name for Dr. Tennenbaum, Ryan's favorite geneticist," Atlas continued. "It's her's what responsible for takin' Rapture's daughters and makin' 'em int' Li'l Sisters."

"Oh, our boy Jackie's taken a likin' to the Li'l Sisters already," Evelyn said. "Let the girl go, but still managed to put us all on a Daddy's bad side in the process."

"Don't give 'im a hard time, love. He's just come from the surface. Can't possibly know Rapture the way we do. Boyo, I know it must seem strange t' you, bein' told murderin' a li'l girl's the right thing t' do, but those girls are dead already. They've been stripped of wha'ever makes 'em human. Now there's nothin' more 'an walkin' incubators for Rapture's most precious resource. Next time ya get the chance, remember it's you or them."

They pushed through double doors and found themselves in a room filled with boxes. Jack looked with interest at the contents: copies of the Bible, the Torah, and the Qur'an; crucifixes and rosary beads; menorahs.

"So, this is what security here got so upset about?"

"Religious practices are expressly forbidden in Rapture," Langford said. "'No gods or kings', remember?"

"It's just like Ryan," Atlas said. "Freedom to do whatever you want, as long as you believe the exac' same thing as he does."

"I think this stuff's for suckers, anyway," Lucky said, letting one of the leather volumes fall from his fingers back into one of the boxes.

"_He sees us!_" someone shouted.

Jack turned towards the scream and approached the glass panel of a small office. A Splicer was seated on the floor inside, rocking back and forth, a Bible clutched in his hand.

"He sees us, even down here, at the bottom of the ocean," he muttered. "I thought at the bottom of the ocean I'd be able to get away from Him, but He sees me even here."

Then the Splicer jumped to its feet and charged into the glass. Jack stepped back. The Splicer continued to beat its head against the glass, and Jack noticed dents and blood stains on the window, apparently from where the Splicer had done this before. It made him wonder how much of the Splicer's deformed face was the result of too many plasmids and Dr. Steinman's scalpel, and how much was self-inflicted by ramming into the glass.

"You can't get away from Him, no matter where you go," the Splicer cried. "You can't hide from Him. No matter where you are, below the waves or above the crowd, every man must face the consequences of his sin. Each man must deal with consequences of the choices he makes. Forever!"

He pounded on the glass a few more times, then sat back on the ground, rocking again.

"_Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me . . ."_

Then he began to weep.

"I don' understan' it," Atlas said. "We all bought our tickets to Rapture. We all knew what Ryan's vision was. But you're not here t' muse on philosophy. You're here 'cause you're playin' a hard game, and ya need an Ace in the hole. The caves are just ahead. I'll tell ya where ya can find that weapon stash I was talkin' about."

* * *

_Andrew Ryan looked across his desk in his office at Hephaestus at the two men seated uncomfortably before him. He sipped his scotch and soda on the rocks while McDonagh tugged on his glass of Old Harbinger Beer, his own personal brew, while Sullivan, never the kind to drink on duty, sipped off a bottle of Hop-up Cola._

"_We almost got 'im, Andrew," Sullivan said. "An anonymous tip. We'll be there when he and his boys are gettin' off their sub with their next shipment of smuggled goods."_

"_The problems not catchin' 'im anymore, Mr. Ryan," McDonagh said. "The problem's what we're gonna do after."_

"_What do you mean, Bill?"_

"_Fontaine Fisheries, Fontaine Futuristics . . . They're more than just fronts for smuggling, sir. There some of the biggest businesses goin' in Rapture right now. And plenty of innocent people have small fortunes tied up in them."_

"_We're not trying to hurt innocent people, McDonagh," Sullivan protested. "But we obviously can't just let him keep using his business for an operation that undermines everything Rapture stands for. And we can't trust anyone he ever associated with running the businesses honestly."_

"_But we can't just run the businesses ourselves, either. If Ryan Industries takes over Fontaine Futuristics, you'll have a monopoly, sir. Which I'm sure is just as much a slap on the face to everything you intended Rapture to be."_

"_It's only temporary," Sullivan insisted. "Just long enough to poke around Fontaine's interests, see what's what."_

"_I shee no choiche in the matter," Ryan said. "Once Fontaine ish out of the picturre, we'll ashume control of hish holdingsh. We'll divide the businessh approprriately later, all in good time."_

_He finished his drink and reached in his desk for his bottle of Lacan Scotch. _

"_That'sh good, Sullivan. Get back to worrk now. Keep me updated."_

_Sullivan nodded and left the room as Ryan poured more of the scotch into his glass._

"_Anything on yourr mind, Bill?"_

"_Honestly?"_

_Ryan nodded._

"_I'm just hoping you know what you're doin', Mr. Ryan," McDonagh said. "We serve on the council 'cause these poor souls put their faith in us, not because of some divine right."_

* * *

Evelyn finished entering the four-digit combination Atlas gave her and opened the secret door in the corner of the damp cave.

The room was filled with machine guns, shotguns, pistols, grenades, and almost every other type of weapon and ammunition available.

Evelyn grabbed a Tommy gun, which she slung over her shoulder.

"You can keep the revolver, now, Jack."

Pancho seemed especially excited. He ran a finger loving across a grenade launcher before picking up a flame thrower.

"Oldie-toy, a newie-toy, heh?"

Twitch posed like a cowboy, a revolver in each hand, until Teagan pushed his hands down.

"Drop those before ya shoot someone's eye out."

"There's my show o' good faith," Atlas said. "Now I need you to fulfill your half o' the bargain. Me family's in a grotto nearby, hiding in a mini-submarine. Once you get them out, I'll tell ya how to get out o' Rapture."

Jack grabbed a shotgun and a box of shells labeled "Electric" and followed the others, all now bearing new weapons, out of the munitions cache and deeper into the cave. At the end of their trail, they could look down a steep slope at a pool of water, a tiny submarine bobbing in it.

"Wait here," Evelyn instructed Jack. "We need ya to stand lookout. Give us a holler if ya see anyone comin'."

Jack wanted to argue, but Evelyn was already scaling down the slope, the rest of her troop sliding down behind her.

Once Twitch, the last one down, had reached the bottom of the slope, a glass panel slid down in front of Jack. From his vantage point, he could see Splicers emerging from the tunnels on the other side of the submarine.

"Hey!" he shouted, jumping and waving his arms. "Hey!"

But no one turned and looked in his direction. The glass panel was apparently enough to muffle the sound of his voice to the point that those at the bottom of the ravine couldn't hear it. And when Jack began banging the glass with his fists, it showed no indication of cracking. He remembered the battered Splicer in the office in Fontaine's Fisheries.

He turned around and found a crevice in the cave floor. He had no idea where it would lead, or even if it would lead anywhere, but he couldn't see any other choice. He had to find an alternate route to the grotto as quickly as possible.

_**A/N – Had planned on covering a little more ground in this chapter, but this is as good of a cliffhanger (in both the figurative and literal sense) as any to leave off on until next time. Don't know when I'll be writing the next chapter for sure, but I plan on getting to it sometime in May.**_


	9. Smuggler's Hideout

_Disclaimer – I own nothing . . . nothing! Except my copies of the Bioshock games, of course._

**_A/N - _****I expected to have a new chapter in May. And here it is, June. Sorry for the delay. Hope you're all still reading and that I haven't kept you waiting for this chapter too long.**

* * *

"Splicers!" Evelyn shouted.

She could see them now, coming around the sides of the mini-sub. They were already flanking her gang, outnumbering them.

She clenched her fist and watched the icicles form on the back of her hand.

As gunfire erupted around her, Evelyn opened her hand, feeling the cold emanate from her palm. It turned a puddle into ice around two Splicers' ankles. As they struggled to free their feet from the block of ice, Evelyn raised her shotgun and fired. The blow caused one of the Splicer's head to explode like a cantaloupe. She fired the second barrel, hitting the other in the chest, and then shucked the shells and loaded two more.

She was jostled by a thuggish Splicer wielding a candlestick. Evelyn swung the shotgun into its chin, knocking the Splicer over before bringing the gun down on its skull like an axe. She spun quickly and saw more Splicers galloping towards her.

Gritting her teeth, Evelyn fired off her plasmid again. Another puddle froze right before the monsters stepped into it, sliding to the ground where they were mowed down with machine gun fire from one of her partners.

The pretty Irish lass shot a glance to the top of the hill, where she had left the outsider, Jack Wynand, keeping lookout. There was now a thick sheet of glass covering the opening he had been standing in, and Evelyn could see no one behind it.

She put the barrels of the shotgun over her shoulder and fired at a Splicer who was sneaking up behind her.

Through her peripheral vision, she could see Touch, in his ragged butler uniform, pivoting on his heels as he used his telekinetic ability to lift Splicers up and toss them against the cave walls.

Her little sister, Teagan, was frantically swinging her elbow and snapping her fingers, causing flames to burst up around Splicers. She was visibly more and more frustrated as she continued missing her targets.

Pancho pushed her aside with the business end of an enormous chemical thrower.

"Move over, _muchacha_," he said. "Let me show you how it's done."

He smiled wildly, a cigar clenched between his teeth in the corner of his mouth, and covered the horde of Splicers before him in a sea of flames.

Twitch was climbing, lizardlike, up a ridge to where an automated turret, seemingly long disabled, was stationed. Even as he climbed, one hand was in the tool pouch at his waist, readying to repair the machine.

Even Professor Langford was holding her own with a Tommy gun that had obviously been tinkered with by the smugglers and arms dealers of Neptune's Bounty to prevent kickback.

The onslaught of Splicers continued.

_Andrew Ryan has a lot to explain for hi'self,_ she thought. _Sending spliced up buckos to do his dirty work for him. Benefiting from the sweat of their brow._

Giuseppe, the big Italian, was running closer to the mini-sub, punching and grappling his way through the army of Splicers before him.

"I can hear voices," he yelled, loud enough that his voice echoed through the entire cave. "I can hear people inside the sub!"

* * *

Jack had finally managed to climb to an opening in the side of the cliff where, hanging tightly on to two jagged rocks that served as handholds, he could see and hear what was happening in the grotto. It was too late to warn Evelyn and her friends now. Their battle with the Splicers was already underway.

Jack heard Giuseppe shout that there was someone in the submarine, and he saw him running closer to it.

Then, from somewhere below him, Jack watched a Rocket Propelled Grenade fly across the grotto towards the mini-sub. He opened his mouth to scream a warning, but any noise he might have made was drowned out by a terrible explosion.

Giuseppe's charred body flew up in the air, crashing into the cave wall right at the crevice Jack was peeking through.

There was nothing left of the mini-sub but smoldering, twisted steel, bubbling into the water beneath it.

"Nooooooooooooo!" Atlas cried. It was the most heart-breaking expression of anguish Jack had ever heard. "Goddamn Andrew Ryan!"

Jack resumed his descent down the rock wall. But as he scrambled down, one of the handholds he chose wasn't as secure as he thought. By the time he realized it, it had already come loose from the rest of the wall, and he was plunging towards the ground.

* * *

Jack was dazed. He ached everywhere, and flashing cartoon stars were dotting his vision. But he was still alive. And he supposed that was something to be grateful for.

As he looked around, he saw a shadowy figure move through the darkness of the cave, closer to him. It was a woman, about his height, hair in a tall bun atop her head. He could just make out the heart shape of her lips and almond shape of her eyes through the pitch black.

"So you are the new man in Rapture, yes?" she said, in a pleasant, Eastern European accent. "I have been wanting to have a speak with you."

At once, Jack knew who she was. Atlas had warned him about her.

"Dr. Frankenstein," he said.

"Yes. Everything you have heard about me is true," Tannenbaum said. "I am a monster. The question is, are you?"

Jack reached for the revolver Evelyn had given him. When he couldn't find it at his waist, he realized it must have dropped during the fall. He saw the glint not far away, on the other side of the fallen rock he had tried to use as a handhold.

"I saw you trying to help one of my little ones," Tennenbaum said. "We wondered, could you be a friend to us?"

She stepped closer, and Jack could see another figure at her side. A little girl, holding some kind of doll in one hand, and Tennenbaum's hand in the other.

"Take this," Tennenbaum called.

She tossed something through the air. Jack reached out and caught it.

It was a glass vial, exactly like the one that had contained Electro-Bolt, filled with a neon pink gel.

"What is it?" Jack asked.

"A very special plasmid. This is how you can save the little ones. Their condition is caused by a sea slug in their bellies. This is the only way to kill the slug without harming them."

Jack looked from the shadows to the bottle in his hand.

"When the time comes," Tennenbaum said, "you will know what to do. In the meantime, I will be keeping a keen eye on your progress."

"You're gonna be watching me? You got some kind of automaton spying on me to?"

"I have no need for such a device. My eyes are everywhere."

And then, all around the Doctor, Jack could see tiny, yellow eyes blinking open in the darkness. Then the shadowy figures and the yellow eyes vanished.

Jack could hear swift footsteps on his other side. He rolled over.

Light was streaming through a wide tunnel. The sweet young Irish girl was running towards him.

"Thank the Lord you're all right," she said, helping Jack to his feet. "We was all horrified somet'in' had happened to ya."

Jack bent back over to retrieve the revolver from behind the small rock that had caused him such big trouble.

"Come on," Teagan said, dragging Jack down the tunnel towards daylight. "We found a place we can be safe for a while."

* * *

**_A/N - _To be continued, hopefully soon. As usual, please review and let me know what you think.**


	10. Fire & Ice

_Disclaimer – I own no rights to the Bioshock universe. And I can't wait to own a copy of "Bioshock Infinite."_

_**A/N – Sorry that it's been so long between chapters again. I'd started writing this (admittedly short) chapter late last month, and hadn't found a good opportunity to finish until now. Schedule's been kind of exhausting.**_

_**Kratos-god-slayer-101 – **_**Thanks for continuing to read and review, as usual.**

_**RhythmOfLove – **_**Thank you for saying this is the perfect recreation of Rapture. I'm trying hard not to screw it up.**

* * *

Jack felt nauseous and achy. He was covered in a cold sweat, and his breath was labored and shallow.

A couple naïve days ago he had been foolish enough to believe he could just go straight, giving up the drugs and booze cold turkey. But now that the adrenaline from his recent adventures was wearing off, the withdrawal was hitting him hard.

Evelyn tapped him on the shoulder with a hypo filled with the purplish blue substance.

And Jack pushed the needle away.

"No thanks."

Evelyn began to roll up one of Jack's sleeves for him. Jack wanted to object. But he was enjoying the feel of Evelyn's finger tips, calloused as they were, on his arm.

"If you're goin' t' have a monkey on your back," Evelyn said, "might as well be one that'll actually be useful to us."

"I just don't want to turn into one of those . . . things."

"It'll take a lot more than one tiny dose of EVE to do that." She gently worked Jack's fingers open and placed the hypo in his palm. "Besides, it'll help take the edge off."

Jack looked at the hypo for a moment. Then he jabbed the needle into his vain and pushed the plunger. For a painful instant, he felt the electricity surge through his blood stream, but for no longer than he would if he'd scraped his feet across a thick rug and then touched a door knob. But Evelyn was right about the edge. The shakes were subsiding, and the pain was slowly leaving his muscles.

"How does it work again?" he asked.

"ADAM affects your genetics, allows you to alter your code by injecting plasmids. EVE keeps the plasmids active. It's like exercising. You don't do it, the muscle becomes flabby and inactive."

"It's a strange form of exercise," Jack said, rubbing the sore spot on his arm.

He flexed his fingers, watched the little blue lights dance across his hand.

"So you just have to focus and . . ."

"You're concentratin' too hard," Evelyn said, taking Jack gently by his wrist. "The plasmid's part of your genetic structure now. It's just like wigglin' a toe or shakin' a finger."

She clasped her hand around his, and he felt it grow colder. He looked down and watched the ice crystals forming along her hand. She traced his arm with one finger, the icy sensation causing him to shiver as a soft mist followed her hand. The electricity crackled loudly on the tips of Jack's fingers as an involuntary response.

Evelyn's short hair whipped gently against Jack's face as she turned towards the small puddle formed by the constant dripping of small beads of water rolling down a stalactite above. She held out her palm and one of the beads hit the puddle below it with an icy _clink_ and _splash_.

Jack raised his hand. There was a quick _snap_ as lighting crackled from his fingertips, and then the puddle turned shiny blue, melting the ice cube that had just dropped into it.

She turned her head again, to where the others were seated.

"Teagan finally got the fire going," she said. "For a pyrokinetic, you wouldn't think it would take her this long."

As if on cue, her sister walked up to them, smiling and batting her eyelashes.

"Join us by the fire, won't you?"

"Be there in a moment, sis," Evelyn replied, even though it was clear Teagan was focused intently on Jack.

As Teagan walked back towards the fire, Evelyn leaned close to Jack.

"Be careful," she whispered into his ear. "I think my li'l sis has taken a bit o' a fancy to ya."

A smile flashed on her lips and a twinkle crossed her pale blue eyes for a second before she turned and marched in her slow, confident style to join the others by the fire.

* * *

Jack thought he'd never seen the group look so comfortable before. Twitch was sitting in the dirt, his legs crossed, the flames reflecting off his goggles. Pancho stood in the shadows, and occasionally the light from the fire allowed a glance of him leaning casually against the cave wall, examining his weaponry. The others had pulled crates near to the fire and were using them as seats. Mr. Touch was sitting erect, looking as lankily elegant as ever, and Dr. Langford had padded her crate with several rugs, presumably smuggled goods. Jack hoped the others had taken the time to look through their crates before pulling them near the fire as well, as he imagined some of them must contain something flammable or combustible.

There was an unoccupied crate touching the one Teagan was sitting on. When Jack sat down, Teagan yawned and rested her head on his shoulder.

"I was the servant of a friend of Mr. Ryan's," Mr. Touch was saying. "I would hear Andrew Ryan speaking while I was serving drinks and cleaning up cigar ash. Of course, his vision of a place where no man had more power than any other, where every man could succeed based on his own actions, appealed to me."

Lucky dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, shoved the hankie sloppily back into his coat pocket, and then took the wide-brimmed hat from his lap and pulled it back over his slick black hair. He looked anxiously over his shoulder.

"So, what's the plan? We really just gonna sit around here and wait for another Big Daddy to barge in on us?"

Evelyn took the two-way radio and slammed it down hard enough to make a sharp cracking sound that everyone could hear above the crackling fire.

"Giuseppe is dead," she said. Her blue eyes shifted from face to face as she let her words sink in. "Sacrificed. On a suicide mission for a man whose face we've never even seen. Now, I'm jus' waitin' t' find out what the next step is." She pointed at the radio. "From him."

She pushed the button on the radio.

"Mr. Atlas," she said. "I'm sorry about your family. I really am. But one of my people jus' died because o' listenin' to you."

Short sobs came over the radio.

"All right," Atlas's voice said. "I've made up my mind. I said I was goin' to help ya out o' Rapture, an' I am."

"Keep talkin'."

"We're both after the same thing. Goddamn Andrew Ryan."

Shock and grief were still audible in his voice. His usual sing-song was stuttery and choked.

"Andrew Ryan?"

"That's right. I want my revenge and you want a way back to the surface. Killin' Andrew Ryan's the answer t' both. Ryan keeps a genetic key that controls everythin' down here. The Vita-Chambers, the security bots, and the bathyspheres. Which means only someone with Ryan's genetics can access any of those t'ings. But that can all change if someone switches off the lockdown panel in Ryan's office in Hephaestus."

Evelyn chuckled bitterly.

"So that's all there is to it, then? All we've got t' do is get through Hephaestus, which is crawlin' wit' security and Ryan's personal army of Splicers, I'm sure, and then kill the most powerful man in all o' Rapture."

"I told ya I'd tell ya the one way I knew o' gettin' out o' Rapture, an' I jus' did. It's either that or letting a Daddy escort ya out o' this world an' into the next one. Now, would you kindly head to Ryan's office and kill that son of a bitch?"

* * *

Ice clinked into the highball glass, followed by the pale amber liquid from the Lacan bottle. Andrew Ryan could hear footsteps approaching from behind again.

"Yesh?" Completely calmly.

"There was a firefight in the old smuggler's caves," Security Chief Sullivan said. "Splicers only got one of 'em. Blew up a mini-sub. Langford was with there. And I think the intruder was, too."

"In'trrreshting," Ryan said. "Any idea what they were doing therrre?"

"I got a hunch. I think they work for Fontaine. Or used to."

Ryan laughed softly.

"You shpend an awful lot of time, Mishter Sullivan, being haunted by the ghosht of a man you yourrrshelf killed. And now, in the verrry place I was assurred you killed him."

He turned the glass of scotch, catching the reflection of Sullivan fidgeting nervously behind him.

"No," Ryan continued. "I don't think they'rre worrking for a dead man. I think they'rre worrking for Atlas."

He took a large swallow of the Scotch.

"But thish intrruderr. He'sh an unprredictable element. Continue keeping an eye on him, Sullivan."

"Yes, sir."

Ryan watched Sullivan leave, and then turned the glass so he could admire his own satisfied grin.

* * *

_**A/N – Just bought a copy of the novel "Bioshock: Rapture" by John Shirley. After reading the first couple of chapters, I doubt Shirley's vision of Rapture is going to have any influence on mine. Starting with his version of Andrew Ryan being Russian while mine's Scottish.**_


	11. The Atlantic Express

_Disclaimer - I own no rights to the Bioshock universe. The plasmids contained within this story are the properties of Sinclair Solutions, Fontaine Futuristics, and Ryan Industries._

_**RhythmOfLove – **_**Thanks for your review. Hope this story continues to be to your liking. And I hope you decided to go ahead with that other play through of "Bioshock." It's always worth it to pay another visit to Rapture.**

"_Alllll aboarrrrd!"_ Twitch called excitedly, clinging to the doorway of the train's front car while leaning out with the rest of his body. "Grab your tickets to ride the Atlantic Express, Rapture's fastest way to travel!"

"Oh, brother," Teagan said, shaking her head as the others watched Twitch climb inside.

Every time Jack thought he was getting used to this strange underworld colony, he saw something else that sent a shock through his system the same way his first jolt of Electro-Bolt had. Here was what looked like a luxury train liner, much like the ones on the surface but blockier. But it was at the bottom of the ocean. And there were no train tracks.

Instead, the train was suspended, inches above the ground, from a long rail along the ceiling.

"You really think you can get t'is ol' t'in' runnin' again?" Evelyn asked.

Twitch's smile only grew.

"In a few minutes, I'll have it running faster and more smoothly than when Prentice Mill first had it put together."

Jack climbed into the car after Twitch, and then took Teagan by the hand and helped her up.

"M'lady."

Teagan giggled.

Pancho climbed on and pulled the connecting door to the next car opened. He reloaded his Tommy gun and began pacing down the corridor. The others climbed in and followed him.

"T'is should take us straight t'rough Arcadia and Fort Frolic, all t'e way to Hephaestus," Evelyn said. "T'at is, if Twitch can actually make it work. And if it doesn't fall off the rail and land us all in Pauper's drop."

"Give me a hand, would ya, Jack?" Twitch asked.

He opened his tool kit and set it to the side. Jack stood behind him as he looked for a panel under the train's controls.

"Would you kindly hand me my screwdriver?" he asked.

Jack reached into the tool kit and found the screwdriver immediately, without thinking, and passed it to Twitch, who chuckled as if at some private joke.

"What?"

Jack followed Twitch's gaze. He had his neck craned back and was admiring Teagan as she watched them work. She smiled at Jack, then made a disgusted face at Twitch and retreated into the next car.

Twitch whistled and lowered his goggles down over his eyes.

"She is one hot tomato. Think you could give me some tips on how to attract the dames, old man?"

Jack thought back to Jill, packing her bags and storming out of their apartment while he pulled an empty hypo from his arm and stumbled into the street, half-naked, after her.

"I'm not the guy to ask for advice," he said.

* * *

Evelyn played with her hair. She'd found a compartment with a mirror still intact above the washbasin. Cracked as the mirror was, she could still catch enough of her reflection to upset her.

"Gah, I'm a mess," she said. "I'd been avoidin' mirrors for this very reason. It hurts to see what lacking food and sleep for a few weeks does to a girl."

"You look a vision, sister," Teagan said. "Don't try tellin' yourself any different. I've got some lipstick and blush I can lend you if you really think you need it."

"No," Evelyn said, playing with her hair some more. "I know how much the little beauty products we have stashed mean t' ya. Yer nice dress and what ya have left o' that tube o' lipstick and whate'er was in that compact. I'll stick to savin' bullets."

She stood a little further from the mirror and turned, trying to see what she'd look like from a different angle.

"Do wish I could take a nice bath though," she continued with a sigh. "All this perfume I've put on t' try an' hide my stink is jus' startin' t' make me smell like a cheap Dublin whore. You'd think with all this water . . ."

Teagan put a hand over her sister's mouth and a finger to her own.

"Did you hear that?"

* * *

Lucky was sucking on a half-smoked cigar he had found in an ashtray in his compartment of the Atlantic Express. This was no time to be picky, he reflected gloomily.

He'd taken his favorite pair of playing cards out of the inside hatband of his white fedora, from their place next to where he concealed his pair of lucky dice. Lucky, in this case, meaning "loaded."

As he played solitaire on the floor of the train compartment, he regretted that they wouldn't be stopping in Fort Frolic. He'd love to set foot in the Pharaoh's Fortune Casino one more time. He was a king there. Practically owned the place. In fact, if things had shaken out a little differently, he would have owned the place. He was already in good with all the waitresses and dealers. All he needed was a little more dough to buy out the current owner.

If only now was back then, he'd be sitting at the black jack table, a curvy dame on each side of him, a glass of something from Sinclair Spirits (that Augustus knew his liquor) cut with a tonic (Lucky fancied "Bloodlust" himself) in one hand, and a big fat stogy in the other. He was on good terms with Robertson of the Robertson's Tobaccoria next door. He was one of the few who was allowed into the locked back room where Robertson kept Cuban cigars Fontaine had smuggled from topside. Ryan would flip a wig if he ever found out.

Rapture had turned to crap now. But soon, those days would be his again. And then some. He was taking the big gamble right now. He was all in, and if the gamble paid off, the pay off would be huge.

Then the two Irish babes came storming down the corridor past him. When Lucky tried to say something, the younger one, looking scared as hell, put a finger to her lips.

In one smooth motion, Lucky scooped his cards up and followed them.

* * *

The train lights came on and after some chugging, the train lurched and began to move. Twitch beamed, and Jack was about to congratulate him, when Evelyn and Teagan burst in, Pancho and Lucky at their heels.

"Everyone needs to see this," Teagan whispered.

They crept down the corridor until they could smell the rancid odor of rotted meat and spoiled vegetables from the dining car. The door slid quietly open as Evelyn approached it.

The rotting corpse of a man in a waiter's uniform was leaning over a serving cart. And a little girl, pale and wearing a seaweed covered blue dress, was jabbing a needle into his stomach, happily singing a nursery rhyme.

Another little girl, in a muddy pink pinafore, was fussing by the train window.

"_When's my turn to play with the angel_?"

"_It's okay_," the Little Sister by the body said. "_We can share. Sharing's nice_."

The other Little Sister smiled, laughed happily, and skipped over to the dead waiter.

Jack remembered the plasmid Tennenbaum had given him and stepped closer, but Lucky held him back.

"It's not worth it!" he said. "Look, I want the ADAM as much as the next guy, but . . ."

"_T'ere's never a Gatherer wi'out a Protector," _Evelyn was chanting. "_T'ere's never a Gatherer wi'out a Protector. T'ere's never a Gatherer wi'out a Protector. So, where's the Protector?"_

The train jolted.

It was enough to throw everyone off balance, sending them bouncings into the wall and each other. If this had been happening an hour or two ago, Jack probably would have screamed. But he was catching up to the rest of the survivors. Surviving in Rapture meant not drawing attention to yourself, and never letting the monsters see you bleed. He nearly bit the tip of his tongue off, but he didn't make a sound.

Evelyn showed no reaction to the jostle. She barely even blinked. Teagan's face contorted in surprise and pain, but she barely let out a breath. Lucky let out a barely audible wheeze.

All of this happened in the course of two or three seconds.

But Twitch groaned. Loudly.

The Little Sisters were so focused on jabbing their needles into the "angel" they hadn't reacted to anything. Until now.

The girl in the pink dress rolled her head back and screamed.

"_DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-DDDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"_

Then Evelyn blinked.

"Come on. Now," she said. "We've got to leave right now."

She herded them through the door. Thunderous footsteps were booming from a few cars down, and the entire train was swinging side to side on its cable.

Suddenly, the Big Daddy was behind them, charging with its shoulder forward like a fullback.

"That looks like the same Big Daddy from earlier," Twitch said, panting. "It can't be the same Big Daddy, can it?"

The Big Daddy stopped in place. The portholes of its helmet seemed to be glowing a darker crimson than before, and the sound it made was like an animal's roar. Looking over her shoulder, Evelyn could see it reaching behind its back and unstrapping an oversized rivet gun.

"If it is," she said, "Mr. Wynand here sure did somet'in t' piss him off."

A rivet whizzed over her bare shoulder, leaving a scratch, and lodged itself in one of the muscles of Pancho's arm. The big man grabbed his arm and stumbled, but kept running.

"Shut the train off!" Evelyn yelled. "We've got to get off _now_!"

Twitch's feet were a blur as he shot down the corridor to the front car.

_Phut! Phut! Phut!_ The Big Daddy fired three rivets in rapid succession. They rotated in mid-air and darted into the walls of the train. Mr. Touch was standing in the doorway of a nearby cabin, his brow furrowed, his fingers arched together. Julie Langford cowered behind him.

"What's happening?" Langford demanded.

"We're gettin' off at a sooner stop than we'd planned," Evelyn said. "Grab your t'ings. Daddy's found us, and he's not in a very good mood."

Mr. Touch stepped out into the corridor and turner. Telekinesis stopped a rivet in the air, so close to his face that the others could see blood trickling down when the tip of the rivet twirled slowly on the tip of Mr. Touch's nose. It turned around and flew back at the Big Daddy.

Two rivets pounded into the wall beside Evelyn. Then one caught her in her lower leg, just above her ankle. As she stumbled, another rivet caught her in her shoulder.

Jack stepped closer to her and threw an arm around her, propping her over his shoulder for support as she gritted her teeth and pulled the rivet from her shoulder, chucking it to the ground. Then, still managing to run, she bent and yanked out the rivet in her ankle, a brief groan of pain fighting its way through her teeth.

Twitch was almost at the controls when two rivets penetrated the dashboard. They lit up with a crackle of electricity.

"Ummm, folks. I think we've got a problem here."

"Never mind," Evelyn called. "We'll just have to bale out."

"Bale out?" Langford asked. "Do you mean . . . ?"

"_GERONIMO!" _Twitch called, plugging his nose and jumping through the doorway.

Teagan shot a panicked look at Evelyn and Jack as she dove out after Twitch. Pancho followed, trying to keep his bad arm, the rivet still stuck in it, back, and Lucky followed him, clutching his hat tightly.

Langford stood at the doorway.

"I can't possibly just jump," she said. "Shouldn't we wait for the train to slow d—"

Her words broke off into a yelp as Evelyn shoved her out of the speeding train.

Then Evelyn looked at Jack. He nodded, clutched her tightly, and they jumped from the train together.

* * *

They hit the ground and barrel-rolled together, going faster and faster as they tumbled down the bumpy incline.

When they stopped rolling, breathing heavily into each other's faces, they looked around them.

Pancho was groaning in pain and working on tugging the rivet out of his arm. Lucky's white suit had picked up some new mud stains. And Teagan was pushing a smiling Twitch off of her.

Julie Langford was muttering to herself and trying to pick bits of garbage out of her hair. Mr. Touch, as calm as ever, was brushing the dust off his sleeves.

"Well," Evelyn said, looking at the aggravated Langford, "good idea of yours to pick up those medical supplies, after all."

They looked back up, towards the train. They could still make out the shape of the Big Daddy, standing in the doorway, making noises that sounded like they came straight out of Hell.

_**A/N – Finished reading "Bioshock: Rapture" last week, and finished play through #3 of "Bioshock" at 4am today. Planning on starting play through #2 of "Bioshock 2" tonight. Hopefully will be inspired to have another chapter soon.**_


	12. Step Into My Gardens

_Disclaimer – I own no rights to the Bioshock universe. And I can't wait to own a copy of "Bioshock Infinite."_

_**A/N – Would you kindly forgive me for the long hiatus between chapters?**_

_**The Bleach Doctor –**_** Glad for your review. Keep reading!**

Jack reached down and felt the green blades between his fingers. He plucked a handful out of the ground and examined it. There was no doubt. They'd just jumped from a speeding monorail and rolled down a grassy hill.

Ahead, he could see vegetation. Looking through the gaps between treetops, he could see the walls and ceiling of the transparent glass dome, and through that he could see a shark swimming by.

The usually stoic Dr. Langford was standing and waving her arms, a proud smile beaming on her face. She indicated a gate, the ornate lettering above the entrance reading "Arcadia."

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "won't you please step into my gardens?"

Jack stood up, brushed off the seat of his pants, and then offered a hand to Teagan, who smiled as he helped her to her feet. He then extended his arm to Evelyn, but she was already springing to her feet, waving away Jack's hand in her typical fashion, though her previously cold gaze had thawed considerably.

As Jack followed Langford through the gate, he looked around himself, taking the time to marvel at the various exotic plant life around him. Though most of the flora was new to him, he recognized them as being indigenous to different continents across the globe. They blended together surprisingly well, and their combined fragrance made an intoxicating aroma. Jack was startled by a pair of bees that went buzzing by his face.

"On the surface, Andrew Ryan once bought a piece of forest land for his own amusement," Langford explained. "The community tried to force him to make it a public park, insisting it was the property of God and should be available to everyone. Of course, Ryan didn't believe any of that, so he lit it on fire so everyone could watch it burn. When he came to me, he told me he wanted to be able to say . . ."

Here she broke into a weak imitation of Ryan's strong Scottish burr.

"'It washn't God who planted the sheeds of Arcadia. It wash me.' Never mind _that I_ was actually the one who did all the work."

"I don't like this," Evelyn said, looking nervously at the brush all around them. "We're out in the open, and any number o' t'ings could be hiding in the bushes. I feel like we're walking into an ambush."

"We can cut through the storage shed," Langford said, pointing. A trace of disappointment was evident in her voice. "That will keep us out of the open and take us to the other side of the park."

* * *

It was pitch dark inside the shed. Fragments of broken glass lay shattered at the spot below what was once a light bulb, and everyone could barely see an inch in front of their face until Evelyn and Teagan lit flashlights to pierce the darkness.

Lucky, in the rear, took off his dirtied fedora to dab the perspiration on his brow away with a handkerchief.

"Who crawls in my garden?" a low voice whispered.

A bladed hook swung down through the back of his head and exited through his face. He was hoisted off the ground.

Everyone turned, nervously, only seeing each other and noticing that Lucky had vanished.

Pancho felt tiny bits of ceiling crumble and land on his head. Then someone was breathing down his neck and whispering in his ear, "_Adios, ammo bandito_."

He tried to scream, but no sound came out.

The hook went through his belly button and made an incision up his stomach.

Up in front, Lucky's body dropped in front of Teagan and Evelyn. There was a bleeding, gaping hole where most of his face should have been.

Teagan screamed, backing up and nearly stepping in Pancho's opened belly.

More dust and debris fell from above.

The flashlight beams jumped to the ceiling.

"Spiders!" Evelyn yelled.

Splicers, sharp meat hooks strapped to their ankles and wrists, were climbing in and out of a hole in the roof, swarming over the ceiling and walls, their instruments somehow enabling them to climb around like insects.

Evelyn fired two panicked blasts from her shotgun at the ceiling. The crawling splicers just laughed in response.

Suddenly, Jack felt like time was slowing down. Everything seemed to freeze before his eye.

A bolt of electricity from his fingers was enough to light the room for a few seconds. In that time, he pulled the revolver he was carrying and aimed it. The first bullet caught the splicer directly above him in the head, and he moved out of the way just as the splicer collapsed and landed beside him. There were three splicers a little further along the ceiling. He managed to hit each one of them squarely in the head as well, then turn and shoot a splicer on the wall who was reaching out for him.

Another splicer leaped, flying towards Evelyn, his hook arching towards her chin. The bullet stopped him in midair, throwing him to the ground an inch from Evelyn's feet.

Jack exhaled as the other spider splicers retreated through the hole in the ceiling.

"I didn't know you coul' do tha'," Evelyn said, her voice coming out in a soft wheeze.

"Neither did I," Jack said, equally breathless.

"Tha' boy o' yours has real talent, miss," Atlas' voice crackled through the radio. "He shouldn't be keepin' it under a bushel. Boyo, when a Big Daddy sees you comin', he ought to run t'e other way."

Teagan bolted for the nearest door.

* * *

Teagan had just caught a breath of fresh, garden air, when her sister's hand clasped firmly down on her shoulder.

"Stop!"

Streaming from one tree to another, just at the tip of Teagan's nose, was a beam of pinkish light.

Evelyn swung the barrel of her shotgun through it and the light shorted out, a dart following the stream it had made and hitting the next tree with a _thwack_, quivering.

Another shotgun clicked, and a strangely level voice said, "Hold it right there."

Everyone slowly looked up into a square, chiseled face, which looked a little worse for wear, but still healthy. He was trembling a little bit as he kept the shotgun pointed at Evelyn's face.

"You're not splicers?" he said.

"Just barely," Evelyn replied. "Not one o' us has had more 'an a plasmid or two."

The man lowered his gun.

"Me and the missus haven't seen anyone who wasn't spliced out of their mind since the incident at Kashmir's on New Year's Eve."

His voice was totally even, soothing and pleasant. They were very reassuring qualities.

"We've just come from that way," Evelyn said. "We're tryin' to get to t'e other side o' Rapture, to Hephaestus."

"You'd better come inside. Too many splicers around here right now. Follow me, please."

The stranger slung the shotgun over his shoulder and stepped back, gesturing towards a small shack beside a radio tower. Once the group passed him, he hammered a clunky device on a spike into the nearest tree. There was the groan of a spring being pulled back, and then a pinkish light glowed from the trap rivet onto the next tree.

* * *

There was a large sign next to the shack, displaying the logo of Rapture Radio.

An attractive lady, about the stranger's age, waited inside, tidying things.

"You'll be safe here for a while," the man with the shotgun said. "We can offer you shelter, but not our food and water. My wife and I like to be hospitable, but we can't be _that_ hospitable."

"We always like to offer our kindness to strangers," his wife said, in a pleasant voice that complimented his own. "At least, in this world-gone-mad day and age."

"Your voice sounds familiar," Evelyn remarked.

The man cleared his throat.

"What's a matter, Mary?" he said boldly.

"I'm just not sure how I feel about the Little Sisters, Jim," the woman replied.

"Don't you know? Why, they're the glue that holds Rapture together."

Evelyn's face instantly took on a look of disgust.

"I'm Jim."

"And I'm Mary."

Then in unison, "Together we're the voice of Rapture Radio."

"You're the ones responsible for those tatty propaganda pieces always playin' over t'e speakers."

Jim looked sadly at his wife and took a seat.

"It's funny how you don't think of it as propaganda when you actually believe it. We were convinced we were doing this stinking colony a public service."

"That was before we were told we weren't allowed to play anything by Anna Culpepper or Grace Holloway anymore, and that we had to play more tripe by that homicidal ham Sander Cohen."

She went over to a corner and put a record on. The small space was filled with the sound of Noel Coward's voice moaning "Twentieth Century Blues."

"Of course, now, everything's set up to play Diane McClintock's little 'Rapture Reminders' and Andrew Ryan telling his life story every few moments, thanks to the good people at Rapture Central Computing."

"The roughest part is having to listen to those dreadful sketches we recorded," Jim said. "It's hard to believe we actually said that shit now."

He laughed bitterly.

"You know the funniest part? Even after all those skits we did about not worrying about the side effects of ADAM, Mary and I never touched a drop ourselves."

Mary's eyes were following Jack, who was pacing nervously in a corner. Now Jim eyed him curiously as well.

"We haven't introduced you to our friend Jack Wynand yet," Evelyn said.

"I'm not familiar with the name," Jim said.

"You shouldn't be," Evelyn said, a smug grin on her luscious lips. "He's barely been in Rapture more 'n a day."

Mary dropped a glass she'd been dusting, smashing it to pieces. Jim's eyes opened wide.

"You mean . . .?"

"That's right," Evelyn said. "He's a regular Johnny Topside."

"We heard Ryan going off about an intruder over the speakers," Mary said.

"It gets better," Evelyn continued. "Wait 'til you hear _why_ we're going to Hephaestus."

"And why is that?" Jim asked.

"We're going to assassinate Andrew Ryan," Teagan answered.

Jim and Mary reacted in surprise again, and then Jim broke into a chuckle.

"Well, an enemy of Andrew Ryan's is a friend of ours. Mary, get our friends some drinks."

Just then, there came the loud sound of a dart being fired from a trap rivet. It was followed by another coming from the other side of the shack, and then another from yet another direction.

Jim grabbed his shotgun, and Mary reached into the cushions of the sofa and pulled out a Tommy gun.

Twitch jumped out of the way as a splicer swung through the window nearest his head with a pipe wrench.

Jim aimed and fired. He ran to the broken window, resting the barrel of the gun on the sill and aiming at the other splicer shambling towards them.

The _rat-a-tat-tat _of Mary's shotgun sounded from nearer the opposite window.

"Run now," Jim said. "Mary and I will cover you. Just tell Andrew Ryan we said 'hi' when you see him."

"But . . ."

Evelyn, Teagan, and Touch were reloading their own weapons.

"Don't argue with the nice people, honey," Evelyn said.

Mary pushed a side door open and Evelyn ran through it, blasting away with her gun as she did. The others soon followed.

"Thank you," Jack whispered.

"Oh, and a Rapture Reminder for you," Jim said back. "Mind yourselves if you plan on passing through Fort Frolic. Sander Cohen's unofficially taken ownership of the neighborhood. Likes to put on his creepy plays at the Fleet Hall."

"Cohen still puts on plays?" Evelyn said. "Is there anyone left who even wants to watch?"

"That doesn't stop him," Jim said. "From what we hear, he always has his own 'captive' audience."

_**A/N – Next chapter, if I get around to it, will be "Death in Arcadia."**_


	13. Et in Arcadia Ego

_Disclaimer - I own no legal rights to the BioShock universe or any related characters._

**CaliforniaStop**_** – Thank you for your compliment. I realize this isn't the perfect representation of a BioShock movie, even the one I intended it to be. I just knew what worked for the game, someone exploring the dark, shadowy corridors of Rapture alone, only worked because people who were probably playing alone were able to feel like they were experiencing the dark, shadowy corridors of Rapture under the guise of Jack. I thought for a movie there'd need to be more drama, and, as much as I wanted to give the baddies bigger roles, I couldn't see them leaving their individual territories. So I filled in the gaps with some staples of the zombie genre, thus the rag-tag band of survivors Jack interacts with. Didn't work as well as I hoped (I didn't want to diminish Atlas' role as much as I have), but if you don't like them, at least you notice they're quickly dwindling in numbers.**_

**TheBleachDoctor, Zero612, InsaneJelly**_**, and my **_**Anon **_**reviewer – Seriously, thank you guys for your reviews. Along with **_**CaliforniaStop**_**, you finally gave me the motivation I needed to write another chapter. Sorry it's only a short one.**_

_**A/N – Here we are. Unlucky Chapter 13. If you'll remember long ago when I wrote Chapter 12, I was planning on calling this chapter "Death in Arcadia." I found a better title in a nifty article I found online, a designer commentary by J.P. LeBreton, one of the designers for BioShock's Arcadia, that fit the idea of this chapter a little more poetically. That article provided some much needed inspiration for this chapter.**_

* * *

_Bill McDonagh sat at a table across from the bar at The Fighting McDonagh, letting one of his hired hands fix drinks for the other patrons as he sipped his own mix of whiskey and soda, heavier on the whiskey side. He was playing his last meeting with Andrew Ryan and Security Chief Sullivan over and over in his head, hoping the whiskey would take away the sick feeling in his stomach it created._

_The chair next to him screeched back from the table. He tried not to appear too startled as he turned to the person who had snuck up beside him, but he had to recoil when he saw the mess of bandages covering her face._

"_Hello, Bill."_

_McDonagh took another sip of his whiskey._

"_Ms. McClintock." He tried to spit out the words. "I'm sorry. I tried to help you, but . . ."_

"_You can help me now, Bill," she said, taking her seat and sipping her martini through what were still shapely lips._

"_I heard Steinman was working on you, as a personal favor to Mr. Ryan. I never much cared for the bloke m'self, but he's. . ."_

"_I should be able to take the bandages off in a few days, but I'm afraid to look in the mirror. J. S. has been getting a little too . . . _experimental _with his work for my tastes."_

_They sat and sipped their drinks in silence for a chilly moment, McDonagh knowing what McClintock wanted to talk about, but afraid to breech the subject, McClintock seeming to feed off of McDonagh's discomfort. _

_Finally, McDonagh gathered the courage. He coughed and then spoke._

"_I hear you're with _Him_ now."_

"_What of it?" Diane said, her shapely lips smiling between the bandages. "Are you going to report me to Sullivan's security team?"_

"_Now, now. I don't think that will be necessary. I just don't want any trouble in my bar."_

"He_ wants your help, Bill. There's no one in Rapture that Ryan trusts more. You can get close, and __then . . ."_

"_You shouldn't talk about it so loudly. If someone hears you even talking about that, we could both __be . . ."_

"_Look at me, Bill." Diane grabbed McDonagh's face and forced him to look into the one bloodshot eye still visible. "What can anyone take away from me that hasn't been taken already?"_

_McDonagh jerked his head away and took a bigger swallow from his glass._

"_Please, Diane. Just leave me alone. Go back to _Him_. Tell _Him _I'm the bloody enemy if you want. But I won't do it. I won't betray Mr. Ryan."_

"_I cared for him, too, Bill. Once. I know what it feels like to want to please him. But look around you. Is this the Rapture dream he's always talking about? Do you think this is what he had in mind when he had this place built?" McDonagh heard her chair scraping the floor again as she stood up. "You'd be doing Andrew a favor."_

_When McDonagh turned his head again, Diane McClintock had vanished. He finished his drink. The sickness in his stomach had only become worse. _

_He lifted his glass and threw it with all his strength, shattering it across the floor._

* * *

"Where are you going?" Evelyn demanded. "Fort Frolic is _this_ way."

She jerked her head to indicate the desired path, but Julie Langford continued to step defiantly in the opposite direction.

"But the research labs are _this_ way."

"You're seriously goin' to get yourself killed o'er a few pieces o' papers and some microscope slides?"

"Those papers and slides you refer to," said Langford, sticking the soft 'V' of her feminine chin out haughtily, "happen to represent the most successful period of my career as a scientist. Even if I could ever hope to recreate what I accomplished in the facilities down here, it could take years back on the surface."

"And that's worth bein' torn apart by a bunch o' spliced up nutjobs?"

"I have a responsibility to the scientific community back on the surface to share the discoveries I made down here with them. That aside, selfishly, my recent discoveries in the field of botany down here are worth a fortune."

"Fine." Evelyn turned her back dismissively. "Go get yerself killed o'er your fancy science. It'll save us the trouble o' having to watch splicers play with your insides."

Julie Langford said nothing, but just continued to walk in the direction she was facing.

Jack ran after her.

"I think you're going to need some back-up, Professor."

"Why, Mr. Wynand," Julie replied, smiling at Jack with something that resembled warmth.

"You know me. I've just been Mr. Chivalry lately."

Teagan looked imploringly at her sister. Evelyn rolled her eyes.

"Ah, hell."

* * *

The sign said "Rapture Research Laboratories – Arcadia Facility." The picture above the caption was an illustration of three trees silhouetted in a sunset.

"I told you this wouldn't take long," Langford said, pushing through the front door of the facility. "Just wait here. I'll grab my papers and be right out."

The door shut behind her. Evelyn paced around nervously, peering up at the treetops all around them.

"I still don't like this."

Mr. Touch flinched as something rustled in the tree above him, throwing leaves down on his shoulder. He backed away slowly.

Another treetop rustled above Evelyn. She cocked her shotgun.

"Ah, hell," she repeated.

"What is it?" Jack asked.

In response, a crazed voice from above said, "Who dares to disturb our domain?"

All guns pointed to the treetops.

"Hey, Doc," Twitch yelled, banging on the glass front of the laboratory. "I think you're gonna need to hurry it up in there."

Strange whoops and howls fell from the treetops.

"Get ready to meet the Saturnine," Evelyn said.

With a bloodcurdling battle cry, a spider splicer, dressed in a scant outfit made from leaves and twigs, leapt from a tree and slashed at Evelyn with one of the sickles he had strapped to his body to use for climbing. She managed to step out of the way just in time to take the cut on her shoulder.

The whoops and hollers were echoing from every corner of the garden now. Splicers climbed down from trees and out of bushes, with several scrambling across the glass dome above the plants.

Something seemed to catch Twitch's eye. Looking more antsy than usual, he darted off into the lab.

"Where you goin', boyo?" Evelyn shouted.

She was busy using the shotgun as a means of parrying the slashes of another splicer's sickles.

Mr. Touch flexed his fingers, and one of the trees bent in his direction. When the top branches draped the ground, Touch relaxed his fingers. The tree launched the splicers hiding in it like pebbles from a slingshot. The flying splicers managed to knock several other spiders off the roof, who in turn crashed down on the Saturnine members below them.

Meanwhile, Twitch had reappeared, pushing a cart beneath a large object draped in a dirty sheet.

Twitch tossed the sheet off, revealing some kind of automated weapon mounted to a tripod, not that different from the turrets they'd encountered in the smuggler's cove in Port Neptue.

"Looks like a prototype for some sort of new security device," Twitch said, reaching for his toolkit. "If I can just play around with it a bit . . . "

Jack looked around for a place to hide while he reloaded his gun, but there still seemed to be a splicer behind every plant and tree. Fortunately, they didn't seem to be carrying any weapons beyond their hooks or sickles and the occasional misappropriated tree branch.

One of the hooks sailed through the air and _thudded_ into a tree just beside Jack's neck. He quickly reloaded the revolver and fired at the nearest splicer.

Twitch had been playing with a panel on the security prototype he'd found in the lab. Now, he inserted his screwdriver. There was a loud _boom_ and a cloud of smoke.

Jack ran to help, but a spider splicer dropped from the ceiling and blocked his path. Jack swung at the splicer's head as hard as he could with his pistol and then, when the splicer collapsed at his feet, fired a shot into the splicer's head.

He looked to the spot where the young hacker had been tinkering with his new toy. The cloud had dissipated, leaving behind a melted hunk of debris and no sign of Twitch.

"Didn't think I'd ever hear myself say this," Evelyn said, shouting to be heard over gunfire, "but I think I miss Pancho right around now."

Mr. Touch was flexing his fingers to bend another tree when a splicer leaped from the treetop towards him. Touch dodged back, deftly avoiding each swing of the monster's sickle.

More splicers kept coming out of the foliage.

"We've gotta get out o' here," Evelyn said. "Tell that professor o' yours if she doe'n't get out o' there now we're goin' t' leave her behind."

Jack nodded and ran into the research lab.

"Professor Langford, we have to go now!"

He found Langford's office. He could see her through the clear glass wall, but the door wouldn't open for him. Langford was studying a file she had pulled out of a cabinet intently as Jack frantically pounded on the glass.

Langford turned to him and opened her mouth to speak.

Seeming to appear at random from the shadows in the office, a blade slid across her throat and blood began to pour down her neck. When she collapsed, Jack couldn't make out the assailant in the dark.

Professor Langford's hand slammed against the window, her fingertips covered in blood. Jack watched as the fingertip skated across the glass forming letters.

"Would you k—"

Then he saw the hand go limp and fall.

Jack turned to run. The splicers were entering the lab. He braced himself and elbowed through until he was out of the lab and back in the gardens of Arcadia.

Two of the splicers surrounding Jack collapsed, and he saw Teagan aiming her revolver. She was standing next to an open vent leading into the lab.

"Professor Langford . . ." Jack said. "She's . . . They got her."

"Then I guess this little side trip turned out t' be pointless after all," Evelyn said. "Let's get out o' here."

Mr. Touch and Evelyn ran, Teagan following behind. But as Jack started to run after them, his foot caught a tree root and he fell.

A small group of splicers was now approaching him, and these ones had guns.

"Jack!" someone cried.

Jack saw Teagan running to help him. He put out a hand to signal for her to stop, but she surged forward and grabbed his hand. The armed splicers formed a circle around them, and one held a Tommy gun to Teagan's back.

A short, bald man with a sweaty mustache pushed his way through the splicers.

"You're both under arrest," he wheezed. "Are you gonna come quietly, or do we got to do this the hard way?"

Teagan struggled, and one of the splicers cracked her over the head with his gun. Jack dropped his revolver and slowly raised his hands above his head.

* * *

_**A/N – To be continued . . .**_


	14. The Sullivan Show

_Disclaimer – I'm going to point out again that I don't own the Bioshock universe, and that I want to own Bioshock Infinite. When's that thing finally coming out?_

**CaliforniaStop, Zero612, **_**and**_** TheBleachDoctor – **_**Thank you all again for your reviews. Due to the positive response to the last chapter, I really didn't want to keep you hanging as long as usual for another chapter, especially as I've only been advancing the plot by small chunks at a time. So I tried to hurry up a little bit more with this installment. **_

* * *

Jack really needed a drink. Or a smoke. Or a needle to the vein. Or a snort of powder. Even another shot of that bluish-purply goo they called EVE. Anything to hold off the headaches and shakes and sweats for a little while longer.

The little bald man was laying various crude instruments out across a wooden bench. Jack and Teagan had been hung by their handcuffed wrists from a rafter so that their toes barely touched the ground. Even conscious for it, Jack was still unsure how the little man had been able to hoist them up this high. From this perspective, the short, fat man with the bushy wisps of hair on the sides of his bald head looked more like a troll than ever.

Jack heard Teagan moan as she regained consciousness, and he turned his head to face her. Sullivan had stripped them both down to their barest undergarments, and Jack had gentlemanly tried to avert his eyes from the young girl's nearly nude figure. Now, as her eyes opened and looked from the squatty troll to him in panic, he tried to fake a reassuring smile. He decided to say something, but the little man took his words from him.

"You're finally awake." He turned to Jack. "Now that you're both up, it's time for formal introductions. My name's Sullivan. What's yours?"

Jack just stared at him for a moment before spitting out, "Go to Hell."

Sullivan calmly pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, than he snarled and threw his fist, with all his force, into Jack's stomach.

Jack coughed and swung back on his chain.

"I don't like hurting people," Sullivan said. "At least, I didn't used to. Now I done it so much it don't really bother me that much anymore." A note of sadness crept into his voice. "In fact, sometimes I'm worried I'm startin' to enjoy it a little."

Then he shook his head and smiled, dismissing his moment of humanity with a sick little chuckle.

"I done a lot of ugly things. Lot uglier than this. But it's a small price to pay to put paradise back on track."

He punched Jack hard in the stomach again. Jack swung around on the chain, groaning in pain.

"Leave him alone!" Teagan cried out.

Sullivan slapped at her. He was just barely able to reach the corner of her chin. Her head swung sideways and she whimpered a little bit.

"Men are talkin' right now, sweetheart."

He turned, once again, to Jack.

"We don't have to do it the hard way. You can answer a few questions for me, then I can let both of you down and we can discuss this over a bottle like civilized people do. Now, who do you work for?"

"You bastard," Jack groaned.

"So that's how you wanna do it."

Sullivan punched him in the gut.

Jack coughed a few times.

"I'm not even supposed to be here," he said, choking the words out through clenched teeth.

"Well, that's somethin' we can both agree on," Sullivan said, massaging his fists.

"I'm supposed to be in Europe with my family. My plane crashed on its way over the Atlantic . . ."

"Liar!" Sullivan said, winding up for another punch. This time, Jack flexed his abdominal muscles in anticipation. "You expect me to believe that?"

The next two punches thudded off Jack's stomach as he held his breath.

"Well, now, the gloves," Sullivan said, literally tugging at the fingertips of the leather gloves, "come off."

He managed to reach up and find a spot between bones on Jack's arm, just above the elbow, and squeeze into it with his bare fingers as hard as he could. The pain was accompanied by the involuntary firing of tiny sparks from Jack's fingers.

"I see you favor Electro Bolt," Sullivan said. "It's a good plasmid. I just recently become partial to the stuff myself."

His hand began to glow blue.

"Too bad it looks like you missed a dose of EVE."

He put a hand on Jack's stomach, and Jack was racked with the electrical surge.

"These toys here," Sullivan waved his arm over the bench. "They're mostly just for show. I find most people realize they want to talk after they have a few volts sent through them."

Another surge.

"He doesn't know anyt'in'!" Teagan shouted.

Sullivan flexed his fingers and Teagan writhed in an electric current.

"What do you want from me?" Jack muttered.

"Just tell me. Do you work for Frank Fontaine?"

"No."

The electricity shot through Jack again, hotter this time.

"Frank Fontaine's dead," Teagan said. "E'ryone know's t'at. You shot 'im y'rself."

"Yeah, I shot him, all right. But I still haven't been able to find the body."

Sullivan grabbed Teagan's shapely bare leg, and she screamed as sparks flew up. Tears ran down her face, turning her makeup into ugly smears.

"Stop it!" Jack screamed.

Sullivan looked at Jack's concerned face and smiled. He laughed a little.

"Ooh. I see I've finally found the right pressure point."

He zapped Teagan again.

The girl wiggled her fingers. Flame burst across her hand for an instant, but then quickly extinguished.

"So, you're one of those 'Incincerate' broads? It's a good plasmid, for a dame." While one of his hands continued to glow blue, the other turned into a glove of ice. "I prefer Winter Blast myself."

He prodded her belly with his icy touch. Teagan let out a few more whimpers of pain.

"Stop it! I'll tell you whatever you want!" Jack said.

Sullivan prodded Teagan with Electro Bolt again, and then caressed her stomach with Winter Blast.

"I hate that it has to be this way," he said. "But I know Andrew Ryan would say it's all worth it."

"What do you want me to say?" Jack repeated.

"I want you to tell me where Frank Fontaine is."

"I . . . don't . . . KNOW!"

Teagan's body writhed as the electricity from Sullivan's fingers shot through her again.

"Fine! I work for Fontaine," Jack said. "I work for Fontaine! I'll tell you anything you want to know. Please, just let the girl go."

"Where is he?" Sullivan growled, applying his icy hand to Teagan's scorched body again.

"Stop it!"

Jack worked up all the saliva he could and coughed it out onto the center of Sullivan's bald head.

Sullivan turned, his black eyes livid, his fingers clenched. As his hand glowed a more intense blue, Jack watched Teagan flex every muscle in her body, grunting as the flames bursting from her arms grew hotter and hotter.

Even as Jack felt more electricity crackle from Sullivan's hand, he tried to remain focused on Teagan, the iron binds melting off around her wrists. She must have been burning off the last tiny amount of EVE in her system.

She fell on her face right by Sullivan's bench. Her hands gripped the first thing she could reach, a long lead pipe. She swung it hard against Sullivan's head, and the fat little man went rolling across the ground like a ball.

A couple good swings of the lead pipe were enough to break the chain suspending Jack from the rafter and put him back down on his feet.

"Le's go," Teagan said, and they both started running.

Jack kept running, nearly tripping over the clothes balled up on the ground, not looking back until he heard a shout from Teagan. Turning back to see how far behind she'd fallen, Jack could make out two shadows cast on the wall. Sullivan had Teagan by the ankle. The lead pipe had apparently fallen and rolled away when she fell on her face. Sullivan was rising with, what looked like, in the shadows, a machete.

"Don't worry about me, Jack! Jus' save yourself. You've got to get Evelyn outta here!"

The machete thudded down on her back.

She was still kicking and struggling beneath Sullivan. Jack knew he had to go back and save her. He had to work out a plan. Quickly. Even if he could find a weapon, how could he get his hands back in front of him?

The blade came down again, Teagan still struggling and screaming beneath it, crimson blood splashing the wall the shadows were being cast on.

Jack started running towards the grotesque shadow puppet show, determined to tackle the squatty troll and save the fair damsel. The blade came down again. And again. And again.

Blood kept splashing the wall.

Jack stopped where he was standing. Teagan had stopped making noises. Her shadow had stopped flailing and kicking.

The only movement in her body was from the vibrations of the machete still hacking into her back.

Jack turned and ran, as fast as he could, never looking back this time. He felt sick as he heard the sound of Sullivan grunting and the machete slicing into soft flesh.

* * *

Jack managed to clamber up a flight of stairs and through a pair of heavy doors. He was back out in the garden. His head was spinning. His heart was pounding. His vision was failing.

Every part of him hurt.

He only stopped when he'd thudded into Mr. Touch. Touch grabbed him by one shoulder as Evelyn caught the other.

"S'rry," Jack said. "S'rry. Y'r s'st'r. I coul'n't . . ."

"Don't talk," Evelyn said. "You need to save your strength."

Jack could hear the sound of her voice, but her words didn't make any sense.

"I'm s' s'rry," he said, his face feeling nearly paralyzed. "Y'r s'st'r. Y'r s'st'r . . ."

"Where losin' 'im fast," Atlas' voice said.

Mr. Touch and Evelyn were dragging him forward.

"Quick! Get 'im to a Vita Chamber," the voice over the radio said. "Can ya hear me, boyo? Stay wit' us. Jus' a li'l further."

Vision was blurring around the edges. Everything was becoming darker.

"Nearest Vita Chamber's in Fort Frolic. I know it'll put ya smack-dab in Cohen's territory, but we don't really ha' a choice now."

Now everything was just blackness. Atlas' voice seemed to be coming from a different planet.

"Hurry up, now! We don't ha' much time. Get 'im into the Chamber before we lose 'im for good."

"Don't die on me now, Jackie," Evelyn whispered softly into his ear. "Jus' a li'l farther, now."

"I'm s'rry. I'm s' s'rry. I tried . . ."

"Get a move on!"

Atlas' last phrase echoed a few times in Jack's head, getting softer and softer, until Jack felt himself floating towards a light.

* * *

_**A/N – Not done yet. To be continued . . .**_


	15. An Evening with Sander Cohen

_Disclaimer – I own nothing . . . nothing! Except my copies of the Bioshock games, of course._

_**A/N – I realize it's been another long gap between chapters. If it helps my case any, I've been working on this chapter on and off for the last couple of weeks.**_

Zero612 – _Sorry to have to test your patience again. After taking a little extra time to get this chapter just right, I hope you'll find it worth waiting for._

CaliforniaStop – _As you're the baddie fangirl here, this chapter's for you. I hope I got it right._

Flatfoot88 – _Welcome to the game._

* * *

Jack tried to bring his arm up to tug his blankets to his chin. First he realized he couldn't move his hand very far. Then he realized it was because his wrists were handcuffed together behind his back. Opening his eyes, he looked up at the ocean and realized there were no blankets. That he wasn't in his bed.

Still, beside the pain in his wrists from the tight cuffs, he felt better than he had in a long time. The headaches , shakes, and shivers were gone. The aches and pains of his recent experience had disappeared so completely he was about to dismiss it as a bad dream. For the first time in a long time he felt refreshed, energetic, _healthy even_.

Then he saw figures in front of him. Four men wearing rooster masks, and another man standing in the center of them, wearing a worn-out tuxedo with a wilted rose stuck in the lapel. He was tall, just above six feet, and slender. Probably somewhere in his mid 60's. He had a ghostly pallor, as if he'd never stepped foot in the sunlight, even when he was above the ocean. He had a thin, neatly waxed Salvador Dali mustache and an equally neatly slicked back mane of graying hair.

Jack immediately began struggling to escape, but he found himself thrashing against a clear glass panel an inch from his face.

The man in the tuxedo put a finger to his lips and gently made patting motions in the air, like a man trying to quiet a crying infant. Then two of the men in rooster masks leaned forward and the glass panel slid open.

"You're finally, awake little moth!" the pale man said.

Jack struggled some more. The man in the tuxedo was making cooing noises as the two men grabbed Jack by his shoulders and hoisted him to his feet.

"Yes," the pale man said. "Another moth lured to Fort Frolic by the flame that is Sander Cohen! There's no need to struggle. You are among . . ." He took a deep breath, carefully considering his next word, and then, as he exhaled, he said, "Admirers, here." He clapped his hands. "Fitzpatrick! Finnegan! Help our guest out of his chains!"

Cohen spoke with the voice of a Hollywood character actor. Every syllable was crisp and fully annunciated, and the accent was definitely American but so posh it almost sounded British.

After the two men in rooster masks had their hands over Jack's wrists, the handcuffs fell off, and they backed away with their lock picks.

"You've heard of me, of course?" Cohen said.

Jack had. And he'd heard just enough that he realized he didn't want to aggravate the man. Not when he was standing midst him and his followers, half-naked and unarmed.

"You do plays right?"

For a moment, Cohen's thin lips twisted into a sneer, and Jack witnessed something sinister flash in his eyes. But it was only an instant and then the lips twisted back into a smile.

"But of course, you're new down here." He made a grand flourish with his hands. "I believe the word you are looking for is . . . _artiste."_

He gestured towards a row of plaster sculptures.

"Just take a look at some of my work."

Jack stepped forward and touched the white plaster. A trickle of blood leaked out from a crack somewhere and dropped on Jack's hand. He recoiled when he realized what he was looking at wasn't a sculpture, but a preserved cadaver.

"Wonderful, aren't they?"

Jack swallowed, even more assured that he did not want to anger the man.

"Yeah. They're really great," he said. "They really speak to me."

"Yes. Yes." Cohen circled around him. "You are not without a reputation down here yourself. How long I've waited for something tasty to come to this sleepy burg!" He leaned in and sniffed Jack's bare neck. "Ooh, I can smell the malt vinegar on you."

Cohen stepped back. He must have noticed Jack cringing, because he clapped his hands again.

"Rodriguez! Cobb! Why are we letting our guest stand here unclothed like a common animal? For God's sake, get him into wardrobe."

He walked towards a doorway below a neon sign identifying the building as the "Fleet Hall", two of the men in rooster masks gently guiding Jack behind him.

"Of course, we'd heard stories of a mysterious stranger who'd just come from the surface, making his presence known across Rapture. But we dismissed them as _filthy _rumors," Cohen said as he passed through the box office and into the auditorium. "Now, seeing you in the _flesh_, I'm convinced you're perfect for a part in my latest opus."

"Thanks," Jack said. "I'm flattered. Really. But I don't think I'm cut out for theater work."

"Nonsense!" Cohen insisted. "You're just the new talent we're looking for. _New blood_, as it were."

There was a small room off of the auditorium, and Cohen's four followers busied themselves pulling clothes from a dusty old wardrobe.

"But I haven't even seen the script," Jack said. "And there's no way I'll be able to learn my lines in time to . . ."

"Don't worry about the script, little moth. We'll be playing to your own unique talents tonight. Just follow my lead and improvise!"

Jack shuddered, wondering what unique talents the strange pale man could possibly be referring to.

Meanwhile, the four men in rooster's masks' hands were travelling up and down Jack's body. They buttoned him into a moth eaten dress shirt and a vest in marginally better condition, while fitting him into a gray suit coat and slacks.

"The rest of you have all read your scripts, correct?"

Fitzpatrick, Finnegan, Cobb, and Rodriguez all nodded in enthusiastic affirmation, as one of them slapped spirit gun between Jack's upper lip and nose and pressed something hard against it. Jack looked into the mirror and saw a mustached man in a gray suit staring back at him.

"_Perfecto_!" Cohen shouted, blowing a kiss into the air. "Rodriguez, young Fitzpatrick, raise the curtain! Cobb, Finnegan, get our performers into their places! This shall be my masterpiece."

* * *

Jack watched from his spot backstage, flanked by Fitzpatrick and Cobb, as Cohen strode into the beam of a spotlight fixed centerstage.

"All rise for our national anthem," he intoned.

Somewhere, a phonograph began playing, and then Cohen began to warble in a reedy voice.

"Rise, Rapture, rise! We lift our hearts up to the skies . . ."

Jack looked nervously at the pistols Finnegan and Cobb were holding. Maybe they were stage pistols, but he wasn't ready to risk his life on that assumption. Although his "costume" made him feel a little more comfortable, he was still unarmed and out of EVE.

Cohen cleared his throat.

"The Wild Bunny, a poem by Sander Cohen. I want to take the ears off, but I can't . . ."

Fitzpatrick and Rodriguez glanced away from Cohen to Jack. Even if he could move fast enough to deal with Fitzpatrick and Cobb, he'd still have to worry about dealing with them, or even Cohen.

"Intermission," Cohen said, striding towards Jack. "What do you think of the show so far?"

"It's brilliant," Jack lied. "I really don't feel worthy to be part of it."

"Fret not, my beautiful little moth. It's Act Two where you will shine! You'll be playing the villain of the piece." He stood back and took a good look at Jack. "It's been a while since you've partaken, I can tell. Perhaps we should revitalize you before your grand debut."

He waved a hypo of EVE, seemingly from nowhere. Jack almost nodded, almost felt his tongue wagging, wanting to plunge the beautiful blue substance into his arm.

Cohen seemed ready to offer the hypo to Jack, when the needle disappeared again.

"But how silly of me," Cohen said. "Frank Fontaine never used EVE himself. I want you to be in character. We must respect the method!"

"Umm, Mr. Cohen?" Fitzpatrick interrupted meekly.

Cohen swiveled his neck towards Fitzpatrick. Even from the angle Jack caught of his profile, the intensity of Cohen's glare caused Jack to take a step back.

Cohen said nothing, so Fitzpatrick cleared his throat, took a step closer, and waved a thick wad of papers.

"It's just a couple parts of the script I'd like you to take a look at . . ."

"Take a look at? Fitzpatrick, I've seen the script. I _wrote_ the damned thing."

"I know, Mr. Cohen. It's just that I . . . will, I don't really think some of these scenes will work on the stage. It's just that . . ."

"Are you doubting my script, Fitzpatrick?"

For the one small step Fitzpatrick had taken forward, he was now taking three large steps back.

"No. It's just that . . ."

"Because you sound like you're doubting me. And that makes you a doubter. And you know how we feel about _doubters_."

* * *

"Please, Mr. Cohen. I didn't mean anything by it."

Fitzpatrick's voice came out in a high pitched screech, choked out by a sob.

"Keep playing, my young protégé. All must suffer for the art," Cohen said, a note of sadistic pleasure in his voice as Fitzpatrick hammered the keys on a mistuned baby grand piano in the orchestral pit in front of the stage of Fleet Hall.

Jack felt a pang of pity watching. Sweat was starting to seep through Fitzpatrick's dirty shirt. The piano he was sitting at was covered in sticks of dynamite and, from what Jack understood, they were rigged to explode the first time Fitzpatrick played a key that Cohen hadn't incorporated into his score.

"Up the tempo!" Cohen demanded as the other men in rooster masks busied themselves setting up furniture and props on the stage. "Faster, little boy."

The cheerful ditty Fitzpatrick was playing was a stark contrast to the terrifying situation he was in, bound to the piano.

"And now, the hero of Rapture!" Cobb said. "Our beloved founder, Andrew Ryan."

Sander Cohen climbed up to the stage, wearing a well-cut brown suit in slightly better condition than the gray suit Jack was wearing, bowing graciously to imaginary applause. He crossed to center stage again, the spotlight beaming once more directly upon him, and held for the nonexistent clapping and cheering to subside as the triumphant piano melody Fitzpatrick was playing wound down.

"Good people of Rapture," Cohen intoned, "you have joined me in our glorious city because you believed there was a better world than the one above, a world in which each man was his own master and each person's business was no one's business but his own. But now, Frank Fontaine and his followers have begun to undermine these principles . . ."

Finnegan tapped Jack on the shoulder, distracting him from Cohen's overblown monologue.

"This is your prop," he said. He placed a revolver, much like the pistol Jack had been carrying before his encounter with Sullivan, into Jack's hand. "Be careful with it."

Cohen took his bows and stepped back behind the curtain as his stage hands began rearranging the set. Fitzpatrick flipped the page in the score, the sheet fluttering in his shaky grip, and then began playing a different piece.

"Don't just find the key and hit it!" Cohen's voice boomed. "Tickle those ivories, damn you!"

Again, Jack felt a little bit sorry for Fitzpatrick. It was a cruel punishment for his hardly inflammatory comment. Fitzpatrick's instinct would be to play the piece slowly, meticulously making sure he hit the right key each time. But Cohen kept insisting Fitzpatrick play at a faster tempo. His demands were distracting and kept making Fitzpatrick nervous. And the more nervous he was and the faster he played, the more likely he was going to botch the piece. Jack wondered if Cohen had ever even let Fitzpatrick rehearse the music before.

"Please," Fitzpatrick begged. "I'm sorry. Just let me stop."

"The show must go on, young Fitzpatrick!"

The other men were dragging paper mache rocks and various other props out on to the stage.

Cohen placed a hand on Jack's shoulder and smiled with wicked glee.

"This is your big moment, my dear little moth. Try to just relax and act naturally out there. I have the utmost faith in your dramatic instincts."

With that, Cohen shoved Jack out onto the stage.

Staring through the stage lights, Jack saw what Jim had referred to as Cohen's "captive audience." Scattered among the seats were splicer corpses, manipulated into various poses and then plastered: laughing, crying, sitting, standing, clapping, cheering, leaning forward excitedly, leaning back reflectively. They were all, literally, unable to turn from the stage.

Fitzpatrick had begun hammering out an ominous scherzo in the orchestral pit. Cohen was standing between the front row of the audience and the stage, conducting with his hands and humming along with the piano.

A small throng of armed splicers huddled behind Jack. He tried to stay calm as he felt the warm breath of one on the back of his neck. On the other side of the stage, Jack recognized the figures of Finnegan, Cobb, and Rodriguez, their rooster masks discarded, being led by another splicer.

He was dressed and made up to resemble Security Chief Sullivan, triggering an almost physically painful flashback to how Jack and Teagan had suffered at that maniac's hands. _Teagan. Poor, young Teagan_ . . .

A bullet whizzed by Jack's shoulder. He crouched down, taking cover behind a paper mache rock. Which was soon blown to bits by another shot.

_Evidently, they weren't using blanks._

One of Jack's splicers returned fire, only to collapse with a bullet in his throat. Another quickly followed.

_If their guns have real bullets_, Jack thought_, then maybe . . ._

"No, no, no!" Cohen was yelling, in response to Fitzpatrick's sobs, still loud above the scherzo. "Allegro! Allegro!"

Jack stood up and fired his revolver. Finnegan's gun fell from one hand while the other grabbed that shoulder to try to stop the bleeding.

Jack scrambled behind a larger fake rock as Cobb shot back. He reached around and fired again. This time, Rodriguez stumbled back.

A bullet flew through the paper mache, and Jack jumped back out into the open. Finnegan was now unarmed, but as Jack tried to draw a bead on him, icicles spread across Finnegan's arm, and Jack jumped out of the way just as an icy blast turned the paper mache beside him into a solid wall of ice.

Now on one knee, he took aim and caught Cobb directly in the forehead.

"Brilliant!" Cohen cried. "Perhaps you're not a moth. Perhaps you're an angel. Faster, young Fitzpatrick. Your playing is hindering my climax."

Jack's next bullet sent Rodriguez staggering back, and he was about to fire a second shot when another beam of ice from Finnegan's palm sent him scurrying for cover.

The man dressed as Sullivan was getting too close. Jack unloaded a bullet into his face, almost at point blank range. The revolver felt lighter. Jack realized the next bullet would probably be his last.

Just then, the piano music came to an abrupt stop.

"I can't do it," Fitzpatrick said. "I give up."

He slammed his face into the keys, and an explosion rocked the stage.

As the splicers regained their balance, Jack realized he didn't have to play Cohen's game anymore. He jumped onto the charred remains of the piano and climbed over Fitzpatrick's burnt body into the house.

"No," Cohen said. "This is all wrong. You're taking too many liberties with the material. You're supposed to be shot by Sullivan and fall into the artificial river in Neptune's Bounty, never to be seen again."

Jack ran towards him, firing his final bullet at Cohen.

He'd hoped the shot would frighten Cohen enough to force him out of the way. Instead, Cohen flinched, and then glared at Jack furiously.

"Do you know who you're dealing with?" he roared. His fists both burst into flames, the fire reflected in his eyes. "I'm Sander _fucking _Cohen."

Jack bolted in the opposite direction, running through a flurry of bullets and dodging balls of ice. Cohen hurled fireballs at Jack, missing and setting the elaborate posters hung on the wall alight.

Jack hurtled out into the box office, still dodging Cohen's fireballs.

"Fly away, little moth!" Cohen called, giggling a little bit. "Fly!"

Jack heard the man laughing. He pushed through the doors of Fleet Hall, back into the atrium of Fort Frolic. Even as the laughter became more and more distant, Jack didn't slow down.

Not until a hand caught his shoulder. Jack's heart almost stopped.

The hand pulled him through a pair of saloon-style doors.

"Welcome to the Fighting McDonagh," Evelyn said, welcoming him with a smile.

* * *

_**A/N – Can't give anyone a clear guess to when I'll start working on the next chapter, but we should be in the last third or fourth of things now.**_


	16. Making Love Under Water

___Disclaimer - I own no rights to the titles, characters, and trademarks herein._

_**A/N – Here it is, another month or so since my last chapter. I've been meaning to write this for some time now, between the great response to the last chapter (thanks for all of your reviews) and the momentum the story is gaining as we get closer to the end.**_

**_By the way, is anyone as excited as I am that the release date for "Bioshock Infinite" has been announced for this October? Sure, it will be a long wait, but at least now I know just how much longer I have to wait in agony._**

**_There was a line I forgot to give to Cohen in the last chapter, so I'm giving it to Evelyn in this first scene._  
**

**TheBleachDoctor – **_**Thanks! I think . . . I just hope by "the feels" you mean "good feels" and not "OMG, you f'in ruined Sander Cohen!" **_

**CaliforniaStop – **_**Thanks! I just hope you don't follow through on your threat to plaster me to the keyboard, at least not in the way Sander Cohen would. Haha. Very appropriate review in that sense, and, seriously, I really do appreciate your reviews. I just hope I don't disappoint.**_

**AgedZen-01**_** – ****I'm excited to know I defied your expectations. Keep reading! I think I've got a few more surprises in store for you.**_

**Oscar**_** – ****Happy to know this movie of my mind is "**_**Oscar**_**-worthy." Okay. Cheesy joke, I know, but I couldn't resist.**_

* * *

Evelyn and Touch laughed heartily. Jack took off the gray suit coat Cohen's disciples had shoved him in and tossed it over a bar stool, imagining how sweaty and pale he must look. Maybe even as pale and greasy as Cohen himself.

"You don't ha' to worry 'bout that ol' fruitcake," Evelyn said. "He's got a pretty short attention span. He's probably standin' backstage in Fleet Hall right now, struck by a 'muse', writin' a frilly musical 'bout the special man who came into his life only to run away."

She picked up a fat white bottle and poured some of the contents into a fat round glass.

"Chechnya vodka," Evelyn said, offering Jack the glass. "You look like you could use some."

Jack's hand reached out, desperately wanting to take it, but instead he pushed it away.

"I'd better not."

Evelyn shrugged.

"Your loss."

She swallowed everything in the glass in one fast gulp.

"What'd ya think o' the Vita-Chamber?" she asked. "I tried one o' 'em a time or two, even though it was so blasted expensive. Worth the pretty penny, though. Like a whole day spent at the Adonis Baths in just a few short minutes. Course, that was 'fore Andrew Ryan turned the switch to make it so no one could get into one 'cept him."

Touch said nothing, but he sipped a glass of amber liquid with a more jovial expression than usual.

"Take a load off, Jackie," Evelyn continued. "This is still the best bar in Rapture, and we're almost to Hephaestus. We'll be back breathin' real air 'fore ya know it. Now's as good a time as any to celebrate."

Jack took a seat on a bar stool.

"I just can't stop thinking about Giuseppe. And Twich. And . . ."

Evelyn's baby blues immediately seemed to moisten, and Jack couldn't bring himself to mention Teagan.

"And Prof. Lagford," he added instead. "She was trying to write a message, right as she died. I can't stop wondering what she was trying to tell us."

He spelled out the letters he had seen written on the glass window in scarlet. W-O-U-L-D-Y-O-U-K.

"My guess?" Evelyn offered. "'Would you kill the bastards who did this to me?' And that's exactly what we're goin' to do."

She picked up the bottle of Chechnya again.

"For Giuseppe."

She tilted the bottle and let some of the clear liquid hit the floor.

"For Prof. Langford."

She spilled again.

"For Lucky. For Pancho."

Two more splashes.

"For Twitch."

More anger in her voice. Another splash.

"Hell, even for Peach Wilkins."

A big splash.

"And for Teagan."

She threw back her head and poured the rest of the bottle over her face, then threw it to the floor, smashing it to pieces. Unknowingly, in the same spot the bar's proprietor had shattered a glass cup months earlier.

"For my dear sister. I miss her. I miss all o' 'em. The next thing we spill in their honor will be Andrew Ryan's blood." Her pale cheeks were flushed. Her fists were clenched. Slowly, she exhaled. "Now where the hell's the damned whisky?"

As she busied herself rummaging through the bottles, Jack's eyes wandered to what must have been a photograph of the bar's founder hanging on the wall.

* * *

_Bill McDonagh tried to appear calm as he entered Andrew Ryan's office. In his mind he was sweating bullets, but Mr. Ryan didn't seem to notice. The two armed splicers standing on each side of Ryan's desk, armed, pale, and covered in nasty blotches and growths, glared at McDonagh, drool running from the corners of their mouths._

"_It'sh allrrrigh'," Ryan said to them. "You can leave ush alone."_

_The splicers nodded and walked past McDonagh. Their smell and McDonagh's nervousness made Bill worried he'd be ill on the Great Man's carpet. And that seemed disrespectful, even considering what Bill was planning to do._

_What he couldn't stop planning since talking with a bandaged Dianne McClintock._

"_Bill," Ryan said, seeming happy to see him. "You've no idea how good it ish to shee one shane frrriend among all the inshanity."_

_McDonagh's hands were buried deep in his pockets, where he hoped Ryan couldn't see them shaking. He felt worse than ever. But he knew what he had to do . . ._

"_Now, Bill, what'sh all thish about?"_

_McDonagh brought his hand from his pocket. He was holding a revolver._

_Ryan just laughed bitterly._

"_I hope thish ishn't yourrr idea of a joke, McDonagh."_

_McDonagh pulled back the hammer and moved a finger to the trigger._

"_Nothin' funny 'bout it, sir."_

_He pointed the gun at Ryan's head._

"_Why, Bill?" Ryan asked, calm as ever. "Forr Atlas?"_

_McDonagh knew he'd never get a clear shot if the hand holding the gun didn't stop shaking so damn much._

"_No, Mr. Ryan," he said. "For Rapture. For . . . for you, sir."_

"_Me?"_

"_Look around you, Mr. Ryan," McDonagh said. "I know this isn't the utopia you saw when you asked me to help you build Rapture. Riots in the streets. Shops in ruin. The rich and the poor shooting each other down cold?"_

"_Therrre are prichesh that musht be paid to build parradishe on Earrth. I told you that in the verrrry beginning. But the Great Chain movesh, and I will not put a hand out to shtop it." He leaned back further in his chair. "No matter how much I want to."_

_McDonagh took a deep breath, trying to steady his gun hand._

"_The price is too high," he said. "And I know, somewhere deep down inside, you know that."_

"_Are you rrreally go__ing to shoot me, Bill?"_

"_I don't want to, Mr. Ryan. You've been a good friend to me. But I'm here because I believed in your vision. Because I believed in Rapture. I don't know if killin' you will stop this bloody civil war goin' on outside. But I know it's not goin' to stop with you still drawin' breath."_

"_Then do what you have to do," Ryan said, defiance in his voice. "If you'rre man enough."_

_Bill's arm, holding the gun, dropped to his side. He ran a sleeve over both eyes and sobbed once, gently, into it._

"_Goddammit, Mr. Ryan," he said. "I love you."_

_Then he quickly brought the gun back up._

_But Ryan was quicker. Before McDonagh could fire, Ryan had pulled a crossbow from the top drawer of his desk and fired a bolt through McDonagh's chest, pinning him to the wall._

_Bill McDonagh managed a few agonized breath, agony mirrored in his eyes, before passing away._

_Ryan's splicer bodyguards stepped back into the office as Ryan stepped away from his desk and studied his old friend's lifeless face up close._

"_You disappoint me, Bill," he spat. "I neverrrr figurrred you forrr a parrashite." He turned to his bodyguards. "Take the body away. Put it with Mish McClintock'sh. Before they shtarrt to shtink up my offiche."_

* * *

Finally with a few peaceful moments alone, in one of the small apartments in the backrooms of the Fighting McDonagh, Jack was doing something he'd been wanting to do for a while. He was listening to the recordings he had found in the Medical Pavillion after killing Dr. Steinman, trying to get an idea of his strange location's history through Diane McClintock's accounts.

As Jack listened to Diane's recording from New Year's Eve, the most obvious moment that Rapture had turned from Paradise to Perdition, something nagged at the back of his mind.

He rewound it and listened again.

_"A toast to Diane McClintock, silliest girl in all of Rapture_."

Followed by a shout.

"_Long live . . ._"

And then one word, a word Jack couldn't make out above the screaming and gunfire.

He rewound and listened again.

"_To Diane McClintock, silliest girl in all of Rapture._"

"_Long live Ahhhhghhh_!"

He rewound and listened again, this time straining to try to make out that last word.

"_Silliest girl in all of Rapture._"

_"Long live . . ._"

And then he thought he heard it. His blood froze as he rewound to listen one more time.

_"Long live Atlas!_"

* * *

Jack found Evelyn still pouring herself drinks at the bar, Mr. Touch softly snoring with a half empty bottle of hooch in the corner.

"Sure I can't offer you a glass o' some o' the finest liquor Sinclair Spirits has t' offer?"

She pushed a shot glass of whisky in his direction. He pushed it back.

"Not right now," he insisted. "But I think I have something you should listen to. Right now."

Evelyn brushed her short hair away from her ear and leaned closer to Jack to show interest.

He started playing the recording he'd just listened to, the one documenting Diane McClintock's thoughts as a civil war broke out on New Year's Eve.

"What's your point, Jackie?"

"Is that radio on?" Jack asked, indicating the two-way they communicated with Atlas with.

Evelyn shook her head.

"Not right now. Why?"

Jack rewound the recording.

"Listen again. Pay closer attention this time."

Evelyn nodded again.

_"Long live Atlas!"_

Evelyn just shrugged.

"Did you hear that?" Jack asked. "Someone said 'long live _Atlas_.'"

Evelyn narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips.

"I want you to understand what I'm trying to say to you," Jack said. "We don't know anything about this man who's been guiding us around. What if he's playing us? What if . . . this is some kind of trap?"

"Jackie," Evelyn said. "You can't base that on one li'l line you heard on some Accu-Vox diary."

"So you don't find it suspicious that someone shouts his name as gunfire and murder erupts?"

Evelyn looked at Jack with the expression of a mother when her naïve child asks why the sky is blue. She took a swallow of whisky.

"Atlas was a freedom fighter."

"What?"

Evelyn took another swallow.

"He showed up when some o' Rapture's citizens started gettin' disgruntled as men like Cohen and Ryan got richer and they got poorer. He united the lower class. Told 'em they should present themselves to the higher rungs o' Rapture society. Stand up for equal treatment."

"Why tell me this now? Why not say anything when you started talking to Atlas?"

"'Cause you wouldn't understand," Evelyn said, finishing her glass. "You were new to Rapture. Why should I try to make you understand years o' discord and strife when it was hard enough just to keep you alive. 'Sides, if you'll remember correctly, I didn't trust Atlas. Not at first. You were the one all ready and willin' to do whatever he asked."

"I know. But ever since, something hasn't felt quite right. And after hearing this . . ."

Jack was cut off abruptly when Evelyn's mouth mashed hard against his.

When she moved her lips away from him, she murmured, so close he could feel her breath in his mouth, "I don't feel like talkin' right now."

As her lips rubbed against his again, Jack heard the familiar, comforting voice of Jim from Arcadia coming over a nearby radio.

"This one goes out to some new friends of ours, whichever part of Rapture they're in right now."

As Evelyn parted her lips slightly and Jack stuck his tongue through them, a soft, jazzy melody followed Jim's voice, and soon Etta James was singing "At Last."

The kiss grew more passionate, and Jack gripped hard on Evelyn's shoulder, pulling her body into his. They hadn't touched this closely since they were jostled together on the bathysphere from the Medical Pavilion to Neptune's Bounty. When their lips parted, Jack began kissing Evelyn's neck, actually enjoying breathing in the smell of her sweat.

He stood up from the bar and Evelyn clasped her legs around his waist. As they began to explore each other's mouths with their tongues, Jack managed to maneuver into the nearby gentlemen's room.

Neither of them minded the smell as Jack pushed Evelyn up against the door of a stall. She quickly rummaged through her pockets, finding enough change to get the pay door to open.

She grabbed Jack's dress pants only seconds before he grabbed her men's trousers, and soon both pairs of pants were hanging at their ankles.

Jack collapsed on top of the commode. Evelyn kicked her trousers the rest of the way off and straddled his lap with her surprisingly strong legs.

Their fingers were digging into each other's backs and shoulders deep enough to leave bruises as they pressed their faces together as hard as they could. They were both struggling for breath when the kiss ended again.

"This is my first time," Jack breathed into Evelyn's ear.

Evelyn pulled back and looked at him in surprise.

"You mean this is your first time with a girl?"

"No," Jack corrected her. "I mean, this is my first time making love under water."

Evelyn giggled.

"It's been a while for me."

He kissed her again as she grinded against his lap.

His hands ran up her tanktop, rubbing her back as they started rubbing their lips and bodies together faster and faster. Jack saw one quick flash of his last night with Jill in his mind as he realized that he'd been waiting for this moment with Evelyn's since the first time he heard her voice. She'd stopped kissing him and was gently chewing on his neck as he kept running his hands over the smooth skin of her back.

Then, nearing the moment of ecstasy, Jack looked up and saw a splicer behind Evelyn, ready to swing a lead pipe at the back of her head.

He scrambled for the gun in the pocket of the pants at his ankles, managing to pull it out and shoot the thuggish splicer in the center of its face.

Breathing hard, Evelyn looked from Jack to the dead splicer and back again. The splicers blood had sprayed the walls of the stall, as well as the back of Evelyn's hair and the side of Jack's face. Jack and Evelyn were both struggling to catch their breath, both unsure how much of their exhaustion was from the splicer's surprise attack and how much was from their own physical exertion.

"Well," Evelyn panted, barely getting the word out, "still feeling amorous, lover?"

In response, Jack just kissed her deeply. Evelyn pulled back, smiled wickedly, and began to rock sensuously in Jack's lap again.

Meanwhile, a security bot whizzed past their stall, and Atlas, somewhere, smiled.

* * *

_**A/N – Hope the love scene wasn't too terrible. This was my first "lemon," if you can call it that. Also, I didn't realize Etta James had died so recently until I was writing this chapter and trying to listen to some period music to go with it. In her memory.**_


	17. A Man Chooses, A Slave Obeys

_Disclaimer - I own no rights to the titles, characters, and trademarks herein._

_**A/N – Yikes! Another chapter that I meant to sit down and write a long time ago. I've had several reminders: an awesome Bioshock shirt from ShirtPunch, finally getting to play the LP of the first game's soundtrack, the heart-crushing announcement that "Bioshock Infinite" was going to be delayed another four months . . . but the new job has just kept me too busy to properly make time for this, until now.**_

**CaliforniaStop – **_**I remember what it's like to read certain stories on this site when you get to certain scenes and you realize you can't have everyone reading over your shoulder. Hope you're still reading this after my long break.**_

* * *

"Here we are," Atlas' voice crackled over the radio. "The engine city. The heart an' soul o' Rapture."

Jack looked at the intimidating gate in front of him, the word "Hephaestus" hedged in it. Beyond that was what looked like several rust-colored factory buildings, glowing with a malignant orange light.

"Now all you gotta do is head to the penthouse of the Ryan Industries building an' shoot that bloody son of a bitch dead."

"How do we get in?" Jack asked.

He ran his fingers across the bars, grabbing and trying to shake each one, but the fence remained solid. Finally, in the center, his hand slid across a box. A panel dropped opened, exposing a sharp needle.

"Ge—ge—genetic s—s—s—sample required."

The voice, cold and inhuman, emanated from the box in the gate.

Jack slowly extended his arm, then pierced the tip of his finger on the needle.

A drop of blood fell to the ground, and as Jack brought the finger to his mouth, the needle disappeared into the box with a loud humming sound.

A clean needle slid out where the other had disappeared, and the panel closed itself.

"Id—d—dent—t—tity c—c—conf—f—firmed—d. W—w—wel—c—come b—b—back, Mr. Andr—r—r—rew Rya—a—a—an."

The gate slid open. Jack took a deep breath and stepped through.

As he turned back to Evelyn, the gate slid shut again with a loud _slam._

He tried to find the spot where the gate slid open, but again the tall gate seemed impervious.

"It's no use," Evelyn said, grabbing Jack's hand in hers. "The only reason you got in was because it thinks you're Andrew Ryan. Here. Take this."

She opened his hand and shoved the radio into it.

"Atlas'll guide you through if you need it. When you make it to Ryan's office, find the control panel for the gate an' let us in."

She took his other hand and held it lovingly against her soft cheek.

"Be careful."

Jack nodded, reluctant to let go, and then turned and walked to the tallest building in sight, the one with the glowing neon sign bearing the name of Rapture's founder.

There was a herd of splicers waiting by the door to the building, drool running down their chins. As they drew their weapons, Jack aimed his revolver. He waived the barrel back and forth, holding his breath while trying to pick his first target.

"Employeesh of Ryan Indushtrriesh," a voice boomed over the loudspeakers, visible on the side of the building, "we have a vishitorr. Behave yourrshelves. I'm exshpecting to shee him in my offish."

The splicers lowered their guns and stood back, chuckling among themselves.

The door opened itself and Jack stepped inside.

* * *

It was almost pitch black inside. Jack found himself surrounded by evidence of abandoned experiments. Blueprints were scattered across tables and pinned to boards next to half-finished models.

Somewhere, a jaunty tune played, a few notes riffing on "Beyond the Sea", and Jack's eyes were drawn to a canvas screen in front of a projector. The title of the film was "Becoming a Daddy." The sound of the narrator's cheerful voice was warped to the point that the sound dropped out entirely a few seconds in. Jack was left with only the visuals. A simple, cheerful cartoon character of a doctor was sawing into the head of a similarly drawn man in a striped prison jumpsuit. Then a crane was extracting the crude drawing of his brain and lowering it into a diving suit . . .

Jack shuddered and stepped between the projector and the canvas. He heard a haunting voice nearby.

"_The man in the moon is a girl, Mr. B_."

He quickly hid behind a pillar as the Big Daddy and his Little Sister plodded by.

When they had disappeared from sight, Jack wiped the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead and began backing away from the pillar.

He cut his scream short when he backed into something, biting his tongue hard.

It had one big, red eye and a long, sharp spear. As Jack backed away it collapsed.

He saw several suits and helmets nearby, similar to the one he had just knocked down. According to the blueprints nearby, they were prototypes of the armor for something called a "Big Sister" , by Y. Suchong and G. Alexander.

As he stepped away, his leg caught on a wire, and an Accu-Vox on a table by the Big Sisters began playing.

"Audio diary of Yi Suchong. New client: Andrew Ryan," the voice was sinister and, to Jack, strangely familiar. "Ryan sent over new shipment of weapons. He wants armed escorts for all the Little Sisters. Too many taken by Atlas' men and harvested for their ADAM. Of course, this will all be unnecessary when I have finished work on the Big Daddy. _No one crosses the Big Daddy_."

The tape began rewinding itself, and as Jack listened to the sound, he had an eerie image of a little boy with a toy submarine, running through a laboratory like this one.

"Client: Fontaine Futuristics," the voice spoke again. "Subject WYK developing exactly as planned. Has been two days and already resembles a perfectly healthy boy of five or six years. Should reach target maturity within one week."

The tape jumped forward. When it started again, there was another voice on the tape. Again, Jack saw the eerie image in his mind of the boy with the toy submarine.

"_Good kitty. Pretty kitty_," a soft voice cooed.

"_Are you having fun playing with your kitty_?" the sinister voice asked.

"_Yes, Papa Suchong. Schrodinger is a good cat. Aren't you, Schrodinger_?"

"_Good_," Suchong's voice said. Jack could see the unpleasant smile in his mind's eye. "_And you would never do anything to harm such a good kitty_?"

"_No._"

"_Break its neck._"

There was a sob.

"_No. No, I can't._" Louder sobs. "_Please. Please. Don't make me do it._"

_"Break its neck. _Would you kindly."

There was a terrified _meow_ and a loud _crack_, and then crying.

"_Excellent,_" Suchong said.

The tape stopped, and there was a crackling over the loudspeaker.

"Come to my offish, boy," Ryan's voice said. "You have many questionsh rright now, and I'm afrraid you won't like the ansherrsh I have to give you. But the trruth is shomething that musht be known."

* * *

Ryan waited in the surveillance room Sullivan was usually stationed at, watching the security camera footage of the man from the surface climbing the stairs to his office. Ryan had sent Sullivan away. He'd reviewed footage of this strange visitor carefully, he'd listened intently to the clipping audio. And then he concentrated hard enough to find all the answers he was looking for. The entire key to his opponent's strategy, wrapped up in three words.

He moved a pawn on the chessboard beside him and walked to his putting green to wait.

* * *

As Jack made his way up the winding staircase towards the penthouse, armed splicers stepped back and stood at attention.

"You find yourrshelf in a terrrifying predicament," Ryan continued over the loudspeakers. "You'rre shurrounded by shtrange shights and shoundsh. Barrely human creatshurresh arre trying to harm you. And yet, you like it here. You can't put yourr fingerr on it, but afterr yearrsh shpent chashing cheap thrrillsh, you finally feel like you belong herre. Like you finally have purrposhe. Admit it. Searrch yourr feelingsh, and the word will come to you."

He paused. Jack's legs felt numb as he continued up the stairs, straining his ears even though the voice over the loudspeakers was hardly whispering.

"You're . . . home."

Jack pushed through the door at the top of the stairs.

* * *

Nothing could prepare Jack for the sight of Andrew Ryan in the flesh. He was obviously a few years older than the statue in the lighthouse or the man on the projector in the Bathysphere. They'd been hard years, and it was hard to hide their toll. But he looked even more intense and imposing than he had in the film. His suit barely looked dirty. His figure barely looked unhealthy. And he was even smiling as he practiced putting in his office.

_Like Nero fiddling while Rome burns,_ Jack thought.

"I'll be with you in a moment," Andrew Ryan said, not taking his eyes away from his golf ball. "Therre'sh a frresh drrink I just made for you on the deshk. Scotch and soda."

Jack eyed the glass next to the bottles on the desk warily.

"It'sh not poishoned, if that'sh what you'rre thinking. Now, take a sheat, would you kindly, and enjoy the drink."

Jack moved to the chair at the desk.

"Scotch and soda. That's . . . that's my drink."

His hand trembled as he lifted the glass to his lips.

Ryan put his putter back in its bag and took his own seat behind the desk.

"Call me a hypocrrite, but I brrought a few cashes of Lacan Scotch with me frrom the shhurface. I called for a total embargo, inshishting that we maintain a closhed-off econonmy with only objects taken frrom the bottom of the sea, but scotch just ishn't scotch unless it's blended in Scotland."

He dropped some ice cubes into an empty glass, then poured the contents of the bottles into it, stirred them together with a long spoon, and took a sip.

He put the glass down and then, suddenly, his hands darted out and caught Jack's wrists. Jack could feel his pulse beating beneath the other man's fingertips.

"Nice tattoos," Ryan said. He let go and stood up. "I had one myshelf, in my more reckless youth, in a dirrty little shop in Glascow."

With that, he unbuttoned his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and began unbuttoning his shirt. Then, turning around, he dropped the jacket and shirt down his shoulders until Jack could read the Olde English lettering inked into Ryan's back.

_A man chooses, a slave obeys._

"That's the difference between a man and a shlave," Ryan said, pulling the shirt back up and buttoning himself up again. "Not wealth. Not power. Not privilege. A man chooshes, a shlave obeysh."

He turned around and tightened his tie back up.

"And which are you?"

Jack opened his mouth to shoot back a quick reply, but Ryan stuck out a finger to stop him.

"Think before you anshwerr. A man has memories. What do you rremember? Basic schooling, but no memory of where exactly you werre schooled. A plashe you shpent your childhood, but no favorrite childhood memories. A farm. A swimming hole. A few choice words of wisdom frrom your mother and fatherr, maybe a brrotherr orr coushin. No painfull lessohnsh learrned. No frriends. No loverrsh. No heartbreak. No favorrite or mosht tragic moment. Nothing to rreally shape you."

He stopped to take another swallow of his scotch and soda.

"Yourr plane crrashesh, and you find yourrshelf here, thousands of feet below the shurrfash of the ocean. Having no idea before wherre this city was. Some would call it fate, or a mirracle. But I find that harrd to believe. What if, inshtead of fate or God or destiny, the plane was brought down by shomething . . . not quite a man."

And then, Jack saw it all, as if it was a nightmare he'd been repressing until this moment.

_He had turned his attention to the neatly printed tag on the giftwrapped package._

_"To Jack, With Love, From Mom and Dad. Would you kindly not open until . . ."_

_And then an exact length of time into the flight. Jack tore off the wrapping and tossed aside the lid to pull out a loaded revolver. Then he turned back to his instructions._

_He stormed into the cockpit._

"_Jack!" the pretty flight attendant, Vivienne, said. "You're not supposed to be up here."_

_He fired into her chest. As she fell back, blood running down her navy blue blazer, Jack swung his gun into the co-pilot's face. There was a look of panic before the bullet caught the co-pilot right between his eyes. _

_The pilot raised his hands in surrender as Jack grabbed the yoke of the plane and pushed it into a nosedive towards the Atlantic. He heard passengers screaming and then the water . . ._

Jack felt an icier blast now than he had when he first crashed into the ocean. He stepped up from the desk, stumbled back. _That wasn't him. That wasn't true._

_Was it?_

"Would you kindly leave my offish?" Ryan said.

Jack walked towards the door.

"Would you kindly come back?"

He turned and walked back towards his glass of scotch.

"Would you kindly sit down?"

He sat down and reached for the glass.

"Would you kindly shtand?"

Jack sprung to his feet again.

Ryan smiled beneath his white mustache.

"'Would you kindly.' It'sh more than jusht good mannerrs, you know. It'sh a powerful phrashe. A familiar phrashe?"

Then a series of scenes flashed before Jack's eyes.

First, _the neatly printed tag on the package._

Then, _a sign, decorated with a 1930's style cartoon of a man pulling with all of his might on a lever, and the words, "Pull, would you kindly?"_

_Then Jack handing Evelyn back her revolver. _ _"Hand me back the pistol you took from me, would you?"_

_Atlas' voice in the medical pavilion. "Right next to that, you should see a big red bottle. Now would you kindly grab hold of it?"_

_Shortly afterwards, with everyone huddled in a bathysphere. "Would you kindly press the button for Neptune's Bounty on the control panel?"_

_Twitch reaching for his tool bag on board the Atlantic Express. "Would you kindly hand me my screwdriver?" And then chuckling at some private joke._

_The recording of Dr. Suchong's voice. "Break its neck. Would you kindly."_

_The writing in blood on the window to Professor Langford's laboratory. Jack could now see it as if she'd written the whole phrase out. "Would you kindly."_

_And then, echoing over and over in his mind, Atlas' words:_

"_Now, would you kindly head to Ryan's office and kill that son of a bitch?"_

"No," Jack moaned beneath his breath. "No. It . . . it can't be."

Ryan laughed again.

"Sit back down, would you kindly?"

Jack sat.

"Stand back up, would you kindly?"

Jack stood.

"Sit, would you kindly. Stand, would you kindly. Leave, would you kindly. Come back, would you kindly. A man chooshes, a shlave obeysh."

Jack's legs seemed to have a mind of their own. He felt the pain of exhaustion as he kept carrying out Ryan's orders.

Andrew Ryan's laugh was bitter.

"All the shacrrifishes I made to crreate paradishe on earth, and they didn't shend a man to kill me. They shent a puppet."

"What's takin' you so long, boyo?" the voice on the radio said. "Flip the switch on the panel an' get out o' there."

"Leave here now, would you kindly," Ryan said.

"Flip the switch, would you kindly," Atlas said.

Jack found himself moving towards the panel by the wall.

"Stop, would you kindly."

"Get a move on, would you kindly."

"A man chooshes, a shlave obeysh."

Jack was almost at the panel now.

"Turn around, would you kindly."

"Pull that switch, would you kindly."

Jack pricked his finger on a needle like the one outside the gate. The machine began humming as it read his genetic code.

"Do it now!"

He flipped the switch.

When he turned around, Andrew Ryan was pointing a crossbow at him.

The weapon trembled in the old man's hands.

"I can't do it," he said, lowering the crossbow. "It would be too much like . . . killing myself."

There were fast, thundering footsteps up the stairs.

Evelyn burst into the room, grabbed the nine-iron from Ryan's golf bag, and connected the club with Ryan's temple.

Ryan fell to his knees, blood dripping on the carpet, and began crawling to Jack.

"A man chooshes . . ."

Evelyn brought the club down on Ryan's head again.

"A shlave . . . obeysh."

He crawled closer. Evelyn swung the club again.

Ryan managed to grab a hold of Jack's pant leg. He looked up, blood dripping down his chin.

"A . . . man . . . chooshes!"

His teeth were scarlet and his voice was gargled from the blood in his throat.

"A . . . shlave . . . obeysh!"

Evelyn stepped closer and swung the golf club hard at Ryan's head again, knocking him to the side.

Ryan managed to bring himself back to his knees and tug at Jack's leg again.

"Obeysh!"

This time, when Evelyn brought the golf club down, she managed to split Ryan's skull, spraying Jack with blood.

She took a few panting breaths and then threw the bloody nine-iron to the side.

Jack looked at the leering faces of Evelyn and Mr. Touch and, behind them, the heavily scarred face of Twitch.

"We can just go ahead and flip those switches now," Touch said.

"There'll be no need for that. Not when Jackie boy'll do it for us, right?" Jack shook his head. Evelyn batted her eye lashes. "Come on, Jackie. Do it for me." Then she laughed. "Would you kindly?"

Then Jack saw his hand pulling different levers. Bathyspheres, Vita-Chambers, Security Bots, gates…

As the room filled with maniacal laughter, Jack bolted toward the stairs. He ran into Twitch, getting a good look at the burns across his face and neck.

"Didn't think I'd made it, did you, old man?"

More laughter as he pushed past Twitch and ran all the way down the stairs, no longer caring about the exhaustion in his legs. He pushed through the armed splicers waiting along the stairs. He pushed through the crowd of splicers outside the doors to Ryan Industries.

* * *

Outside Hephaestus, he picked a direction and didn't stop running, not even noticing the street sign reading "Olympus Heights."

When he didn't feel like he could run any further, he ducked into the nearest apartment.

He found himself in an expensively furnished room, a phonograph playing on a table.

_Oh Danny Boy/The pipes the pipes are calling . . ._

Then he heard a slow clap and a hearty laugh. He turned and saw someone seated at a desk by the wall, his back facing Jack.

"Nice work, boyo."

* * *

_**A/N – To be continued . . .**_


	18. Who is Atlas

_Disclaimer – I own no rights to the Bioshock universe and the related trademarks._

_**A/N – Sorry it's been so long since the last chapter. I didn't mean to drop a huge cliffhanger and keep everyone waiting for nearly three months. In fact, I was so happy about all the reviews for the last chapter that I wanted to get the next chapter out earlier than usual. But then someone stole my laptop (with my copy of the PC version of "Bioshock" still in the disk drive, in fact). So that caused quite the delay. Now I've got a new one, and I'm ready to get back to business.**_

**shadowelf144- **_**Jack just has the worst luck, doesn't he?**_

**TheBleachDoctor – **_**Thanks for your review, as usual.**_

**CaliforniaStop – **_**I'm really glad you enjoyed that last chapter. I had such great source material to work with that most of the reason I wanted to write this fanfic was so I could write my version of the scene in Andrew Ryan's office.**_

**Miss Roth **_**– I admit I took some huge liberties with Ryan and his nationality, but I did it to accommodate the "casting" of the only actor I could imagine filling Ryan's role. (My casting choices for both Ryan and Atlas are dictated by my being a huge James Bond fan.) **_

_**All your questions will be answered in this next chapter.**_

* * *

_Oh Danny Boy/The pipes the pipes are calling . . ._

"Atlas?" Jack said.

"Atlas," the sing-song lilt repeated. "Someone carryin' the weight o' the entire world on his shoulders. I like the image. It's a nice . . . metaphor."

The man on the other side of the room turned around. He was handsome, in a weathered sort of way. He was middle-aged, with a receding hairline, gray at the temples, but he had well-chiseled features, a square jaw and taunt cheeks that were only starting to show signs of age. He had a mousy brown movie star mustache over his upper lip. He was wearing an outfit exactly like the one Sander Cohen's men had dressed Jack in earlier, but in much better condition.

The sing-song Irish lilt disappeared. In its place was a slow Bronx rumble.

"Ain't no Atlas, kid. Never was."

And Jack immediately knew exactly who he was speaking with.

"Frank Fontaine."

"Bingo, kid!" the man who had been calling himself Atlas said, heartily clapping his hands. "Always knew you was bright."

Jack turned towards the sound of entering footsteps. Touch, Evelyn, and Twitch were circling around him.

Evelyn walked to Fontaine's side and put an arm around his shoulder.

"_Oh, me poor wife Myra and me wee baby Patrick!_" Fontaine said, reverting to the exaggerated Irish accent. Then he spat out a derisive chuckle. "Maybe we should get a real family, baby. They play well with suckers."

He and Evelyn kissed each other deeply, then they turned to Jack, who felt numb everywhere, except for his jaw, which was hanging oddly below its usual place.

"He really is the most obligin' gentleman I've ever been round with," Evelyn said, turning towards Jack, her brown eyes shining. "'Course, that might have somethin' to do with the way he was genetically conditioned to bark like my little lap dog every time I said 'would you kindly.'"

"Like I says, I can tell you's a bright kid," Fontaine said. "But you're in shock right now, so you're havin' trouble puttin' it all together. Let's help you out. Now, where do we start?" He clapped his hands together again. "I know! There once was a man named Frank Fontaine, who exemplified all of the principles Andrew Ryan claimed he stood for. He looked out for himself, gave the people what they wanted, did whatever it took to make some scratch. But Ryan felt threatened by him, so he claimed this man was undermining his authority. And it was decided that . . ."

He took a deep breath.

"Frank Fontaine had to die," Touch said.

"So Security Chief Sullivan and his constables raided Neptune's Bounty," Evelyn said.

"But it wasn't Sullivan that fired the shot at Mr. Fontaine," Twitch said. "It was one of the constables who happened to be on Mr. Fontaine's payroll."

"But Sullivan was just arrogant enough to have everyone believe he was the one who took down Fontaine," the man in the center of the room said. "And just stupid enough to believe it himself."

"But the crooked constable," Twitch continued. "He shot right at Mr. Fontaine's head . . ."

Fontaine pantomimed the gun with his fingers, pulled the imaginary trigger, jerked his arm up and laughed.

"With a blank bullet. I dived back into one of the fishing streams . . ."

"And kept swimming," Evelyn picked up. "After all, who knew Fontaine Fisheries better than Fontaine himself?"

"So Fontaine stayed hidden in the underwater tunnels until Sullivan gave up on finding the body and declared him dead. Then it was time for me to die. And be reborn . . . as Atlas."

"Atlas," Evelyn repeated proudly. "Defender of the working class, champion of the people of Rapture."

"Evelyn coached me with the accent, and soon I was makin' grand speeches across Pauper's Drop, putting ADAM into the hands of those who couldn't afford Ryan's brand, building my own personal army of saps."

"Just like on the surface, huh, boss?" Twitch said. "But down here, it was that much easier."

"So it built to a civil war, my army of whack-jobs against Ryan's for total control of Rapture. Until we put each other into a stalemate, him holed up in Hepheastus, me holed up in Olympus Heights, each surrounded by spliced-up armies of nutcases. And that's where you come in."

He put a hand on Jack's shoulder, and Jack jumped back as if the palm had teeth chomping at his shoulder.

"You are Ryan's son."

Jack wanted to steel himself, wanted to not react, but a gasp escaped his lips. Fontaine smiled, taking obvious pleasure in how upset Jack was.

"Son's not quite the right word. Twitch, what's the word I'm looking for?"

"I'd use the term 'clone,'" Twitch said.

"That's right," Fontaine said, his eyes intensely focused on Jack as he circled around him. "I put Rapture's two greatest science whizzes, Tennebaum and Suchong, on my payroll. They're the ones that discovered ADAM, and I figured, if they could make a man who could shoot fire out of the palm of his hand, it would be no problem for them to make a brand new human being from scratch."

"All they needed was pieces of Andrew Ryan," Touch said. "Pieces of hair, flakes of skin . . ."

"An' there was no shortage of those in Rapture," Evelyn added.

"I had you made to order, kid," Fontaine said.

_It couldn't be true! It couldn't! _But at the same time he thought that, Jack remembered the eerily familiar voice he had heard in the Ryan Industries tower. _"__Has been two days and already resembles a perfectly healthy boy of five or six years. Should reach target maturity within one week."_

"You were my Ace in the hole," Fontaine continued. "Designed for only one purpose: to be the ultimate assassin. A regular killin' machine."

Jack's hand flexed as if twisting around the butt of a gun, and he remembered the way a gun had instantly felt like it belonged in his hand, the way time had seemed to slow down when he was shooting at the splicers in the garden of Arcadia, and the way he was able to pick his shots with ease in Fort Frolic.

"You see, Ryan had put the entire city on security lockdown when Mr. Fontaine started bringing reinforcements from the surface," Twitch explained. "He had everything tuned to his own genetics, so he was the only one who could decide who could come and go in the bathyspheres, who could pass through the gates of Hephaestus . . ."

"Who could be rejuvenated when nearly dead from a quick nap in a Vita-Chamber," Evelyn added, and Jack remembered the way Cohen and his disciples had studied him with fascination when he arouse from the strange glass tube outside Cohen's theater.

"Managed to send you off in a mini-sub before Ryan started the lock-down," Fontaine said. "I needed someone who was genetically identical to Ryan to have free run of Rapture after everything else went to hell. And when the time came, I lured you right back here. You were my secret weapon."

"Of course," Touch said, "a weapon's no good unless you can be sure you're in complete control of it."

"All it took to make sure you stayed on the right path was one phrase," Fontaine said. "One phrase Tennebaum and Suchong imprinted on you that would force you to obey whatever was said when you heard it."

"Just three little words," Evelyn said, stepping so close to Jack he could feel her warm breath on his face.

"But that can't be right," Jack said. "No, that's not right. I have parents. I was born on a farm."

Fontaine tapped a finger against his graying temple.

"All your favorite memories are just pretty stories I had old Mother Goose tattoo in that skull of yours. Sent you to the surface. Had an old friend of mine that owed me a few favors give you a job at his car lot. Knew you'd need dough to keep you fed, keep you healthy for when I needed you. Of course, didn't plan on you using all that dough to buy smack, but, hey, you only got so much control of a kid after he leaves the nest."

Jack ran a hand over the old familiar needle pricks on his arm, and as he did, he wondered how many were caused by EVE hypos.

"You were a time bomb, just waiting to go off. All I needed was someone to escort you, make sure you got from the welcome center to Ryan's office in one piece."

"The whole time you thought you were gaining our trust," Twitch said, "we were really gaining yours."

Fontaine ran a hand down Evelyn's slinky figure.

"You know, Evelyn auditioned for Cohen's plays, but he always told her she could never be a convincing actress."

"Guess I showed him," Evelyn said, winking teasingly at Jack.

"What about Wilkins and Professor Langford?" Jack asked. "Were they in on it too?"

"No," Evelyn said. "They were just a couple o' stray dogs started followin' us around. We weren't worried too much about ol' Peach. Just a harmless drunk that managed to stagger his way on to the right end o' a Big Daddy's drill. But Professor Langford, she was dangerous. She was smart."

"She had to go get her research from the laboratory in Arcadia," Twitch said. "Unfortunately, there were other scientists that rented facilities in that building."

"Includin' Tennebaum and Suchong," Evelyn said. "We couldn't risk her stumblin' onto their research and warnin' you about it."

Jack remembered Professor Langford's last attempt at a warning, dying scrawling "Would you kindly?" in blood on a glass panel as blood ran from a gash in her throat.

"You killed her?"

"Not me," Evelyn replied. "That would be sis'."

And Jack had the chilling mental image of Teagan, with her ever-present youthful smile, crawling through a vent in Arcadia, still smiling as she snuck through the shadows behind Professor Langford and ran a blade across her neck, only to appear standing next to _an open vent_ the next time Jack saw her.

"She died. Don't flatter yourself thinkin' it was really for you," Evelyn said.

"For what then?"

"For Rapture."

"It was the best plan we had," Fontaine said, standing over a chess board and brushing a piece off. "Pawns had to be sacrificed."

Jack remembered Giuseppe, playing along, pretending he heard voices coming from the sub in the smuggler's hideout, only to be killed in the explosion when Ryan's splicers attacked.

"It woulda worked, too," Fontaine said. "You woulda killed Ryan, just like I had you made for, if he hadn't gotten wise to the whole 'would you kindly' trick."

"And when you started gettin' suspicious," Evelyn said, "all it took was a little kiss."

Jack clenched his fists and stared at her.

"It was more than just a kiss."

"There's no need for hard feelin's," Fontaine said, holding out his hand towards Jack. "You did even better than I expected. You outlived half my crew, and that's impressive. The surface ain't seen nothin' like we got down here. We stand to make a fortune. Now that Ryan's dead, you and I could be partners, and together, we could be runnin' Rapture tits to toes."

In response, Jack pulled his revolver and waived it in Fontaine's face. As he did, he heard safeties unleashed as Twitch, Touch, and Evelyn all pointed their guns at the back of his head.

"There's no need for all that," Fontaine said. "We're civilized people here. Let's just talk this out like adults. Now, Jackie, would you kindly go get stepped on by a Big Daddy?"

All four of them burst into laughter as Jack's arm fell limply to his side. His knees shot up, moving him across the room step by step as if his legs were living things trying to carry him away. The laughter echoed in his ears as he stepped through Fontaine's window and continued walking as soon as his feet hit the ground.

* * *

He walked until Fontaine's apartment was completely out of sight. And he would have kept walking if it weren't for two arms that wrapped around his waist.

"I got ya," Sullivan said. "Now get down here so I can put these cuffs on ya."

* * *

**_A/N - To be continued . . ._**


	19. Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire

_Disclaimer – I own no legal rights to Bioshock or related etc._

**Shadowelf144 – **_**I know Jack must feel like the unluckiest man in the world right now, but he's the only hope Rapture has. Please, keep reading.**_

**CaliforniaStop – **_**Trying to make up for leaving you hanging so long last time, so I tried to put this next chapter out sooner than I normally would. It is a really short one, but the last couple of chapters have been pretty long, and I honestly expected this chapter to turn out longer, but I think it accomplishes everything it needs to before we continue the story next month.**_

**darkanine – **_**Thanks for reading. Hopefully, you're caught up and reading this as soon as it posts, but if you're getting to it later, I hope you like whatever of the story I have up by the time you read this.**_

* * *

The secret elevator shook to a stop.

Sullivan stepped out first, then turned around, grabbed Jack by the arm, and tugged him out after him.

He pushed and Jack landed on his buttocks on the cold stone floor. He was looking down a long corridor, lined with barred cells, the closest cells empty, and covered in puddles of sea water. His hands were bound together behind his back by a pair of rusty handcuffs.

"Welcome to Persephone," Sullivan said. "This is where we keep the most dangerous psychos in Rapture locked up."

From his seated position, Jack didn't have to look up far to stare the standing Sullivan in the face.

"Really?" he said bitterly. "Because I think you might have let a few slip through the cracks. Like Dr. Steinman. And Sander Cohen. And a hundred spliced up spider people. And . . ."

"And me?" Sullivan said.

"You don't mean most dangerous. You mean the people Andrew Ryan didn't like."

Sullivan sat down across from Jack, and then he drew the pistol that was tucked in his pants and swung the butt across Jack's face.

"You killed a good man today."

Jack spat a mouthful of blood into the nearest puddle, watching the clumps of red separate and float along the surface.

"I didn't kill Ryan," he said through clenched teeth. "It was Fontaine's gang. They used me."

Sullivan was concentrating on the gun in his hand.

"Your little girlfriend," he said slowly. "She was really pretty. I didn't enjoy killing her." He sighed and looked directly down the barrel of the gun.

Jack flashed back to witnessing Sullivan's execution of Teagan in silhouette. Then the terrible mental image returned, of Teagan smiling as she slit Julie Langford's throat. It was becoming harder and harder to know who to feel sorry for down here.

"I had to do a lot of things I didn't enjoy," Sullivan continued. "Become everything I hated. By the end, I was more of a thug than I was a cop. But I did it because I believed in _him._ In Andrew Ryan. Believed him every time he said sacrifices were necessary to create paradise. Even when it became more an' more obvious lookin' around that paradise wasn't what I was seeing."

He pointed the gun at Jack.

"The only thing that kept me going was believing in Andrew Ryan. Believing he'd somehow be able to pull this off. You see, back topside, he gave me a chance, even when no one else would. I've been living my life for that man. And now that he's gone, I got nothin' to live for. So, even though it's obvious to me that you need to die, maybe I need to die to."

And he put the gun down. Pulling out another pair of handcuffs, he fastened one bracelet to his wrist and the other to the nearest cell.

"This lever right here," he stroked the control on a nearby panel, "will release the automatic locks on the door of ever cell in Persephone. Then all the goons in lockup down here can decide what to do with us. And maybe, if I decide we've had enough punishment, I'll just pick up that gun there and put us both out of our misery."

He stood up and pulled the lever. There was the loud _clank_ of a hundred locks unfastening at once, accompanied by frenzied laughter that echoed down the corridor. Sullivan calmly walked with the slowly, mechanically opening cell door he was handcuffed to, and then sat back down when the door was completely opened.

Jack braced himself for pain as he heard the insane laughter coming closer, as well as dozens of echoing footsteps. Sullivan turned his head to see the splicers coming.

But he didn't see them. Their footsteps were drowned out by the thunder of a much heavier set of feet, and the laughter died down to the sound of a single child giggling.

"Oh, sh—"

Sullivan's last word was cut short by the hum of an industrial drill, which was rammed into the exact center of his face.

Jack bit down hard on his lip as the Big Daddy's drill smacked him on the side of the head.

* * *

He was surrounded by an inky blackness, his head pounding. His fingers felt something softer than the stone floor he remembered, and, as he forced his eyes open, he saw a bright light, a tall, slender figure framed by it. The figure was whistling _"Oh Christmas Tree."_

"Am I . . . Am I dead?"

"No, my child, I am not God," a female voice with a heavy European accent said. "It is true what they say on the banners, there are no Gods or kings. At least, if there are, they are not down here in Rapture. But . . . _I did create you_."

Tennenbaum stepped to the side and Jack's eyes began to adjust to the lamps in the room. At first, they had seemed obscenely bright after the pitch darkness of the Persephone cellblock. The soft feeling under Jack's fingertips was a well-worn rug. And, all around the warmly lit and furnished room, little girls were playing.

"So, what do I call you?" Jack asked. "Mom?"

"No," Tennebaum said, stroking Jack's chin and looking at his teeth. "I do not think I would feel comfortable with that. You may call me Brigid."

She let go of his chin and began studying his arms with clinical thoroughness.

"While you slept, I injected you with a large dose of ADAM," she said. "It was necessary to eliminate the influence of Fontaine."

Jack felt healthier and more clear-headed than he could ever remember. Tennenbaum stopped at the track marks on Jack's arm.

"As well as the effects of any . . . _other_ influencing substances," she said suggestively.

"Thank you," Jack replied.

Dr. Tennenbaum helped Jack to his feet.

"You may go now," she said. "There is a bathysphere just beyond this room. You can use it to return to the surface now. Actually, you would have been able to do that any time. But your friends misled you, kept you distracted, did not allow you to realize this."

"They're not my friends. And I'm not going back up there. Not just yet, anyway. I have unfinished business with Frank Fontaine."

"I was hoping you would say that," Tennebaum replied. She walked to a brick wall and rested her hand on it. "Now that Fontaine has control of Rapture, he will not rest until he has harvested every last drop of ADAM, even if it means destroying my little ones. And when he is done with Rapture, he will take his evil to the surface."

"You mean unless he's stopped, Brigid."

"And you are the only one who can stop him. I am not strong enough to confront him myself, and everyone else is either loyal to Fontaine or a useless splicer. Fontaine will be nearly impossible to get to. He makes his hideout in the Little Sister's Orphanage, the same hellish place he turned these precious innocents into those ghoulish things."

She pressed on the brick wall and it swung open like a door.

"This secret tunnel," she said, "is your best chance. It will lead you into the basement of the orphanage. Then you can take down Fontaine and the rest of your friends from inside."

One of the Little Sisters enthusiastically ran through the passageway.

"This little one will guide you," Tennenbaum said. "Go with her, now!"

Jack nodded and stepped into the tunnel.


	20. Bye Bye, Mr B

_Disclaimer – I own no legal rights to Bioshock or related etc._

**Shadowelf144 –**_**Thanks for continuing to read.**_

_**A/N – Another two months snuck by without my updating, and again I want to apologize for that. Just haven't found the right time to sit down and write the next chapter until now. We're almost finished, and I just hope I haven't taken so long to get this chapter out that you've given up on me and that some of you are still reading.**_

* * *

_Dr. Yi Suchong was poring over his papers, trying to figure out where exactly his brilliant plan had gone wrong._

_He hit record on the Accu-Vox._

"_The Protector Trials are almost complete," he said. "Subject Alpha through Gamma have failed to imprint on Little Sisters. Have been sent to harvest ADAM with little girls, but regard them as nothing, as we might a common houseplant."_

"_Papa Suchong?" _

_The tiny voice came from somewhere behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder and Suchong recognized the little waif as Eleanor Lamb, daughter of the renowned psychologist Dr. Sophia Lamb. Sophia was one of Andrew Ryan's greatest political enemies, almost as hated as Atlas himself, and when she was brought to him as a test subject for one of the first Little Sisters to be paired with her own personal Big Daddy, Suchong had been inclined not to question it. The same way he had been inclined not to question how willing the test subjects for the Daddies themselves, all convicts from Persephone, had been as volunteers._

"_Not now!" Suchong said, turning back to his papers. He spoke into the Accu-Vox again. "Have experimented with genetic modifications to form a pairbond between Daddy and Sister, mental conditioning to be totally dependent on one another. But still have yet to see results . . ."_

"_Papa Suchong," Eleanor repeated again, more loudly this time. "Papa Suchong, I'm scared. Will you read me a story?"_

No, creepy little bitch, _Suchong thought. _

"_No. Go away. Papa is busy right now."_

"_Please, Papa? Please?"_

_She was right beside him now, tugging at the sleeve of his lab coat. She was unclean, smelly, her dark hair full of seaweed, her hands and face covered in scales._

"_I said no," Suchong yelled. "Go away."_

"_But Papa . . ."_

_Suchong wrenched his sleeve free from her grasp and swung a hand hard across her face._

_She threw her head back and began to cry. _Now she was really giving him a headache.

_And then he heard the thundering footsteps and the low, not-quite-human moan._

_Alpha Delta, Eleanor's assigned protector, was standing in the doorway, the light behind his diving mask glowing bright red. He raised his arm and the drill began spinning._

_Suchong smiled. He hadn't made a mistake. His experiment was a wild success. The first bond between a Little Sister and a Big Daddy had been created. Something had threated Eleanor, made her cry out in terror, and Delta was going to see that her attacker was punished._

_As he smiled, and the drill came closer to his face, Suchong just prayed it would kill him quickly._

_The last moments of his life were a drawn-out agony worse than anything he could have imagined.  
_

* * *

The little girl in the soiled dress was smiling and skipping, singing a happy little song, unbothered by the stench around here. Jack, on the other hand, was trying his best not to breathe in, choking on the stale air of the Olympus Heights sewer as he waded through its filth. His stomach was threatening to rebel with every step.

"Faster, mister," the Little Sister was calling from ahead of him. "You're almost there."

When Jack took another step, the ground began to shake. He heard the heavy footsteps, splashing through the water, and the bloodcurdling moan that went with them.

"Uh-oh," Jack heard his Little Sister say. When he looked towards her, her feet were disappearing through a porthole in the wall.

Ripples ran through the water and splashed up against Jack's legs as the Big Daddy rounded the corner, its Little Sister giggling madly and holding on for dear life. The portholes were already gleaming red, and Jack remembered Twitch's words on the Atlantic Express, "_It can't be the same one, can it?"_

As if in answer, another whale call sounded behind Jack. He looked over his shoulder and saw another Big Daddy, the Little Sister on its shoulder pointing at him and laughing.

Jack reached for the pistol tucked into his trousers, but as he reached for it he slipped on something foul. He managed to stop himself from falling face first into the filthy sewer water, but the gun hit the ground and went off, the bullet just missing the second Big Daddy, who growled furiously.

Jack plunged his arm into the water and took hold of the gun as the second Big Daddy charged towards him. He fired three shots at the approaching Daddy. The bullets ricocheted off the diving suit, as harmless and as irritating as a swarm of gnats.

The flailing arm of the Big Daddy caught Jack in the chest, knocking the wind out of him and launching him into the sewer wall.

"_Get him, Mr. B!" _one of the Little Sisters screamed. _"He's a real nasty man!"_

As Jack tried to pick himself up, the first Big Daddy stampeded towards him. The drill was spinning at full speed. Jack managed to wrench himself out of the way just in time for the drill to thrust over his shoulder and into the wall, pieces of debris flying off and hitting Jack's face as the drill continued spinning.

As the first Big Daddy worked on pulling the drill back out, the second Big Daddy was firing rivets across the wall, Jack managing to run fast enough to stay just one step ahead each time a rivet became embedded in the wall.

Now the other Big Daddy was swinging its drill arm like a saber. As Jack tried to step backwards, keeping an eye on the end of the drill while trying to put distance between himself and the Daddy, he slipped and fell into the water. He coughed as he pulled himself back into the air, choking on the discolored water he had almost swallowed.

Jack caught a beam of wood, something that must have detached from the support beams of the sewer's ceiling, floating in the water. He braced himself and swung the board with all of his might against the Daddy's back. The board broke in half, but the Daddy just roared, swinging its huge fist into Jack's chest and sending him flying again.

The other Daddy pulled the trigger on the enormous gun it was carrying over its shoulder, and something shot from the end with a loud _thwonk_.

Jack saw the flashing red light on the object the Big Daddy had fired and he heard a bell chiming. Too late, he realized what it might be. He started to run, but the force of the explosion threw him off his feet and tossed him into the opposite wall.

As he struggled to regain his balance, the Big Daddy lifted him off the ground and hurled him through the air like a pigskin.

Jack collided with a crumbling wall, smashing his way through it.

* * *

Then, on the other side of the wall, forcing himself to get to his feet despite every part of him being in unimaginable pain, Jack heard something.

It was singing. A small, tinny voice, distorted, was singing somewhere nearby.

"_In the garden things are growing, many changes will be flowing . . ."_

Jack followed the sound through the tunnel he found himself in.

"_If you want to be amazin', see the flowers, rearrange 'em."_

As Jack stepped into another compartment at the end of the hallway, he saw some sort of vending machine. There was a huge hole in the ceiling above it, splintered and broken floorboard gaping indicating the spot the machine had fallen through.

The pink machine had an automaton on either side of it, each resembling a little girl in a pink dress. The autonomous jaws were clinking open and shut in time with the tinny recording.

"_My daddy is smarter than Einstein, stronger than Hercules, and can light a fire with the snap of his finger," _the machine was saying. _"Are you better than my daddy? Not if you don't visit the Gatherer's Garden, you aren't!"_

The floor was littered with bottles that had dropped from the busted machine, just like the bottle of Electro Bolt that Jack had found at Steinman's.

Without thinking, Jack began grabbing the hypos attached to the bottles and injecting the plasmids into his arms. He barely took the time to read the names on the bottles. Incinerate, Telekinesis, Winter Blast, Sonic Boom, Insect Swarm . . .

The pain of the plasmids flowing through his blood stream almost felt good after the aching from being tossed around by the Big Daddies. He grabbed at the hypos of EVE, the feeling of injecting them into his veins the most exhilarating sensation he'd felt since he'd had Evelyn straddling his lap.

Jack gritted his teeth and followed the tunnel back out to the sewer.

* * *

As he stepped out of the dark tunnels, the Big Daddies were standing at opposite ends of the sewer, distracted by their Little Sisters, one trying to skip stones across the surface of the sewer water while the other was using a chunk of the debris to scratch a picture of her Daddy into the sewer wall.

Both Daddies turned their attention back to Jack when his foot splashed into the water.

The Big Daddy with the grenade launcher pulled the trigger again, three times in rapid succession. With a _thwonk, thwonk, thwonk_, three of the blinking projectiles spat out. Jack didn't flinch as they flew towards him.

Instead, he held one hand in front of his face and arched his fingers as he had seen Touch do. The mines hovered in the air inches from Jack's nose, the cans they had been made from spiraling in mid air.

A quick flick of Jack's wrists and the mines flew back towards the monster in the diving suit, latching onto the portholes of the diving helmet.

The Big Daddy brought its shoulder forward and began to charge. The other Big Daddy was charging as well. They were heading straight towards each other, like medieval jousters.

Jack threw himself back, aiming his gun as he did so. He landed out of the water, on the damp surface by the wall.

"Fuck you, Mr. Bubbles."

And he fired at one of the mines. The explosion was intense enough, and the Big Daddies were close enough, that both of their helmets melted and they collapsed in flames, the water extinguishing most of the fire when the bodies hit the surface.

"_Nooooo!" _the little girl skipping stone screamed, running to the fallen Big Daddy's side.

The little girl drawing on the wall already had tears in her eyes as she approached.

"_Daddy? Daddy, get up."_

One little girl was kicking at the Daddy's melted helmet. The other was furiously shaking the other Daddy's shoulder.

"_Please get up, Daddy. I can't do it without you."_

"_Daddy, you can't sleep now. The monsters will get me. Daddy, wake up before the monsters get me."_

Their little shoulders were heaving, their backs turned to Jack. And as Jack tiptoed up behind them, he thought about how great the plasmids inside him were making him feel. And he thought about all of the ADAM those Little Sisters must be carrying inside of them.

They weren't human. Not anymore. Not really. Killing them would be considered inhuman, monstrous, on the surface. But Jack wasn't on the surface anymore. He was in Rapture.

He could see no right or wrong. The only rule of Rapture was every man for himself. If Jack was going to get his revenge on the man who had made him a puppet, he needed to show no mercy. He needed to take every advantage he could. Because Fontaine would.

As Jack came right up behind the Little Sisters, he thought of the crying child at the used car dealership, another lifetime ago, and how much he just wanted to stop her screaming. And he thought of Peach Wilkins, ready to break a Little Sister's neck, reach down her throat, and pull that slug filled with delicious ADAM right out of her.

What was right or wrong on the surface didn't amount to much down here. This was Rapture.

The Little Sister screamed as Jack put a hand around her neck.

* * *

_**A/N – I haven't really decided if it's "canon" that Delta is the Big Daddy that killed Suchong. I know it's hard to tell exactly where it fits in with the chronology leading up to the events of **_**Bioshock**_**, and I know it definitely doesn't fit the timeline of Shirley's novel. But I couldn't resist giving Delta and Eleanor cameos.**_

_**Hopefully I can get the next (and final) chapter up soon!**_


	21. The Gauntlet

_Disclaimer – I don't own any legal rights to Bioshock, blah, blah, etc., etc._

**CaliforniaStop – **_**Thank you again for reading this. I really have appreciated your reviews the whole way through, and I really don't think I deserve all the praise you've been giving me. This chapter's going to start off going in a different direction than you might have been expecting, so I hope you're not too disappointed.**_

**Eclipse – **_**Was hoping I'd get a reaction out of that last scene of that last chapter. Glad to see that you and **_**CaliforniaStop **_**are representing both sides of the classic Harvest/Rescue debate.**_

_**A/N – So with no further adu . . .**_

* * *

_Are you a monster?_ That was the question Tennenbaum asked Jack when they first met, back on the hard stone floor of the smuggler's hideout.

Jack now had a firm grip on one of the little brats' shoulder. She was squirming in his hand, swatting at his fingers.

_"No! No, no, no, no, no!"_

Jack tightened his grip.

He clenched his other hand into a fist.

He could see a light, glowing pink, emanating from beneath his skin. He worked the glowing hand, ever so gently, through the little girl's hair.

The scales fell from her eyes. The seaweed covering her skin withered and fell away. The pallor disappeared.

When Jack took his hand away, the Little Sister ran an arm against her mouth, wiping away the last bubbles of sticky pink ADAM. She was perfectly normal. A very pretty little girl who had once been somebody's daughter.

She stepped back, trembling, as Jack turned his attention to the other Little Sister, who had been crawling away from him in terror. He worked the plasmid Tennenbaum had given him in that smuggler's hideout through his blood again and placed his hand on the little girl's head.

He stood back. The little girls were staring at him with the innocent eyes that had been pale voids just a moment ago.

Finally, one of the little girls broke the silence.

"Are you an angel?"

Jack stared at his feet, ashamed of what he had been thinking of doing.

"I'm no angel, kid," he muttered.

A tiny hand grabbed his.

"Yes, you are," she said sweetly. "You saved us."

She walked him to the wall and looked up at a porthole, the same one Jack's guide had disappeared through a little while back.

"Hidey-hole," she said, pointing, and then yawned. "Time for beddy-bye."

She jumped up and caught the rim of the hole, her little feet kicking as she tried to hoist herself up. Jack lifted her until she could just crawl into the hole. Then he lifted the other Little Sister so she could climb in as well.

"Good night, sweet angel," a voice whispered from the hidey-hole.

_Are you a monster?_ Ryan had definitely thought so. Cohen and Steinman had only seen the violence in him. Fontaine had even said that all he was capable of was killing. But Tennenbaum and the little girls had seen something in Jack the others hadn't. And now Jack was feeling more confident that there was more to him than Fontaine had expected.

It was time to tech Fontaine a lesson.

* * *

Jack pushed the trap door opened and finished climbing the ladder he'd found in the sewer. Just as Tennebaum had promised, the tunnels had led him straight to what was clearly Fontaine's Little Sisters Orphanage.

He could see splicers all around him, separated from the room he was in by a tall, thick gate. If it was anything like the passages he had seen everywhere else in Rapture, it was electronically locked, and Fontaine had a panel somewhere to control who came and who left.

The splicers were beating at the gate.

"_C'mon out, Atlas! We know you're in there!"_

_ "Long live Andrew Ryan!"_

Jack saw a winding stairway. As he began climbing it, he spotted a surveillance camera out of the corner of his eye.

"Well, well, well." Fontaine's voice boomed over the loudspeaker system. "Look who's here. I certainly hope it's to reconsider my offer. There's still plenty of room in the family for you."

Jack pulled out his revolver and fired at the camera.

He heard another one ahead of his swivel into place.

"No? Well, fun's fun, kid, but I've had enough. Now, would you kindly put that gun in your mouth and pull the trigger?"

Jack kept walking.

"I said, 'Would you kindly put that gun in your mouth and pull the trigger'?"

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Fontaine's hearty laugh.

"So ol' Mother Goose has been playin' around in that ol' noggin of yours, huh? That's okay. I had you brought into this world, and I can have you taken out of it."

* * *

Jack opened the door at the top of the stairs. Mr. Touch was standing on the opposite side of the room. A low chuckle emanated from his throat, and a sadistic smile crossed his lips.

He made a quick gesture and Jack flew back, rolling down the stairs, just barely catching the edge of a step before falling to the floor below.

He hoisted himself back up and ran, as fast as he could, towards Touch.

Touch gestured with both hands and Jack flew into the wall.

He climbed back to his feet, only for Touch to raise one hand over his head.

Jack was levitating, his feet lifting from the ground. As Touch motioned, Jack's body began spinning in the air, rotating faster and faster in every direction. Dizzy, Jack reached for his gun, but it came loose and slid across the floor, disappearing somewhere.

Touch was laughing, pulling one arm back with a clenched fist, rolling his shoulder back, and crossing the room with a surprising amount of speed.

He dropped his other arm and Jack hit the floor. Touch was getting closer, he was swinging his fist . . .

Cold air flowed from Jack's fingertips, turning both of Touch's feet into a single block of ice. Jack raised his hand, creating a layer of ice over Touch's legs, torso, neck, and finally head. A look of abject fear was literally frozen on Touch's face.

With a quick flick of the wrist, Jack used the same plasmid Touch had been demonstrating to lift the ice sculpture off the ground and fling it into the opposite wall.

Touch shattered into pieces.

* * *

"Nice work, kid," Fontaine said over the speaker. "But you don't wanna be my enemy. And if you don't wanna be my friend, it's not too late to turn around. Get out of here while you still can. We won't follow you."

Jack found a locker near part of Touch's face. It was labeled "Power to the People." Inside Jack found a shotgun and a box of electronic buck shot shells, which he rapidly loaded into the gun.

"Come on, Jackie. I'm givin' you a chance to walk away now, while you still got feet to walk with. You already got no job, no family, no purpose. Walk away now, before it all goes busto."

Twitch was sitting in the next room, in a swivel chair, surrounded by different remote controls.

A swarm of security bots, firing their built-in machine guns, was buzzing all around the room, Twitch laughing manically the entire time.

Jack aimed the shotgun at a security bot and fired. The drone fell to the ground, shooting sparks. Jack ducked behind a shelf, waited for another security bot to fly by, and then jumped out and fired at that one before scrambling behind a shelf a little bit closer to Twitch. He shot down another security bot, and then another, running from cover to cover, watching each one short circuit.

When all the security bots had been shorted, Jack threw the empty shotgun to the side, and Twitch reached for another remote. A panel opened on the floor in front of Twitch's seat, and a turret rose up through it. Twitch hit a button, continuing to shake with laughter, as an RPG launched directly at Jack.

Then Twitch stopped laughing. Jack had wiggled his fingers, and the rocket had stopped in midair, just an inch from his face.

Twitch's face now held the same look of horror Touch's had. Until the last second, he hadn't realized Jack had spliced with Telekinesis.

A wave of Jack's hand, and the RPG rotated 180 degrees.

Twitch's lips moved again.

"Ah, sh—"

Jack dropped his hand and the rocket continued on its course, reducing Twitch to a smoking crater.

"You got some nerve," Fontaine said, his voice sounding more amused than offended. "Poor Twitch was just a kid. You sure we can't just talk this out? Plenty of ADAM here for everyone."

Jack was now beginning a climb up the next flight of stairs.

"There's no doubt about it," Fontaine continued. "You're another Ryan, all right. No one else could be this stubborn."

Jack made it to the top of the stairs and then threw the next door open.

* * *

"Hello, lover."

She was standing in the center of the room. Her face was warped, half of it covered in greasy red boils. The other half of her nose was caved in, one of the prominent jaw bones looked like it had come unhinged.

She had put on a dress, a bright blue thing that was probably one of the finest outfits Fontaine's men had smuggled from the surface, but it was torn, possibly by the jagged bones almost poking through the woman's skin, and covered in stains of purplish blue and pinkish red substances.

Every part of her body seemed to be giving off a differently colored glow, from all the different plasmids that were flowing through her veins.

She'd been splicing, and now Jack could barely recognize her.

"Evelyn?"

She hovered over the floor, books flying from nearby shelves and orbiting around her.

"Call me EVE."

The books all flew at Jack at once. He crouched, wrapping his arms around his head as the books bruised them. He then scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees, taking shelter under a nearby table.

"I've been splicing with the good stuff," Eve said, her once sweet lilt now an ugly throaty sound. "Fontaine Futuristic's stockpile of the very best ADAM."

Empty hypo needles rose from the ground nearby and went streaking towards Jack's face. He quickly flipped the table on its side, the needles _thwapping_ into the table top.

With his own telekinetic powers, Jack lifted the table and launched it at Eve. Giant icicles shot through it, shredding the table to pieces.

The colorful lights in Eve were starting to dim.

Jack lunged at her, tackling her to the ground. But Eve wrestled her way on top. Blue sparks of Electro-Bolt shot from her fingers as she lowered a clawed hand towards Jack's face.

"Miss me?"

Jack managed to arch his fingers and flick his wrist, sending Eve flying off his waist with a sonic boom.

He jumped to his feet. Another empty hypo needle darted towards him. A quick wave of his hand and a fragment of the broken table intercepted it. He kept the table fragment floating in front of him, shielding him from the bits of debris Eve was flinging. When he was about a yard away from her, he snapped his wrist and the board caught Eve in the gut.

She was lying on her back, looking up at him, frantically wiggling each of her fingers. Flecks of ice and sparks of electricity impotently spat out.

"That's the thing about ADAM, darling," Jack said, pulling her to her feet. "It's really no good without EVE."

He lifted Evelyn off her feet and carried her to the window.

"You wouldn't hurt me, Jack," she said, trying to put a girlish flutter into her throaty snarl. "You couldn't. We made love."

One hand caressed his cheek. In her eyes, her lips, her dark bangs, he could still see a glimpse of the woman he had felt a connection with.

He smiled, and she smiled back.

Then he lowered her onto the windowsill, overlooking the throng of enraged splicers.

Evelyn's smile was replaced by a look of panic.

"What are you doin'?"

"I'm letting you go, sweetheart."

Just a small shove and Evelyn fell into the crowd below, screaming on the way down. She continued screaming as the splicers caught her, and as splicers hooked their sickles into each arm and leg and pulled in opposite directions until the limbs came apart from the torso.

Jack watched, fist clenched, forcing himself to feel nothing.

"That's a real shame," Fontaine said. His voice seemed to be louder, deeper. "I'm gonna miss her. I sure did enjoy sleeping with her. I guess you can relate, huh?"

Another bitter laugh as Jack climbed one last flight of stairs.

"Looks like you finally found out what it takes to make it in Rapture, kid. Now how's about we settle this like men? Just you and me, face to face. _Mano a mano_."

* * *

Jack came to the door marked "Office of Frank Fontaine." He could hear Fontaine's voice behind the door.

"Oh, that's good. I want more. I wanna keep splicing until there ain't nothin' left to splice with."

Jack pushed through the door.

There was a large globe in the center of the room. Beyond that, just shadows.

Staring at the shadows, Jack caught a bulky outline. A Big Daddy? But then he heard Fontaine's laugh.

"Well, if it ain't the half-Asian, half-Kraut, half-megalomaniac."

A face emerged from the darkness. It was Fontaine's, but it was . . . different. It was larger, more chiseled.

He stepped completely into view. Hunched over, like a gorilla, and just as large as one, with bulging arms, massive legs, and a body that seemed to be purely muscle. Fontaine had been splicing, and he'd turned himself into a real Brute.

He lifted the globe and held it over his head.

"Hey, look. I'm Atlas."

He heaved the globe at Jack. It broke against Jack's face on impact, the weight and the pain sending Jack back to the ground.

"I could see you'd been doin' some splicin', too," Fontaine said, stomping closer. "You look in a mirror since then? How you know you haven't turned into a monster like everyone else?"

Jack stood up and began throwing punches at Fontaine's face, as hard and as fast as he could.

Fontaine didn't even flinch. When Jack stopped for breath, Fontaine returned the punch. Jack stumbled back, fighting back the pain, clutching at his chest, over the rib Fontaine must have broken.

"I gave you everything," Fontaine yelled. "Literally, everything! I had you made . . ."

He swung at Jack again, sending him reeling back further.

"I gave you a good life on the surface. I got you your job. Then I brought you back here, kept you alive, let you fulfill your true purpose. You wouldn't even exist if it weren't for me."

A blow to the stomach sent Jack to his knees.

"I even let you screw my girlfriend. And this is the thanks I get?"

Jack got back to his feet, punched Fontaine in the face again, harder this time. Fontaine flinched. But only a little.

Fontaine pushed Jack away again.

"I paid good money for you," he growled. "What a disappointment."

Jack was back on his feet again. This time, he arched his fingers. There was a bolt of lightning. But Fontaine side-stepped it. When Jack wiggled his fingers again, all he could conjure was sparks.

"You're out of EVE, kid. I told you. Hand-to-hand. I'd hide if I were you."

Instead, Jack limped his way over to Fontaine, clenching both fists.

"You were the closest thing I ever had to family," Fontaine said. "And I'm gonna hate to lose you. But this is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me."

He grabbed both of Jack's arms, lifted him off the ground and whipped him around like a ragdoll, and sent Jack sailing across the room.

"How does it feel, Jackie? Knowing you was just a science project?"

Fontaine marched closer. But when he was right under a hidey-hole, one of the little girls from earlier dropped out and landed on his back. She plunged her long needle into his back.

Fontaine was trying to reach back and knock her off.

"Now you did it," he shouted at Jack. "Just for that, as soon as I kill you, the next thing I do is kill Mother Goose, and all her little eggs!"

"Come on!" the Little Sister shouted. "Help me, everyone! We don't like the bad man. He's hurting the man who helped us."

Fontaine managed to knock the girl to the floor. But now other girls were climbing out of other vents around the room, plunging their needles into Fontaine.

Fontaine was frantically reaching for them as they crawled up and down him like spiders.

"It's gonna take more than brats to stop me!" Fontaine yelled.

But Jack was standing up . . . next to a control panel.

Fontaine's tone of voice changed.

"Now, think about this, Jackie," he said. He was trying to affect a smooth voice for the sales pitch, but Jack could hear the notes of panic. "What're you gonna do next? There's nothin' for you on the surface. You got no job, no girl to go back to."

Jack pulled one lever on the panel. The panic in Fontaine's voice increased.

Fontaine managed to knock a couple Little Sisters off his back, then pulled one off his leg.

"I gave you the only purpose you ever had. We could work together. Be partners. The whole world's ours for the taking."

Jack pulled another lever. Even with Little Sisters picked off, Fontaine was having more trouble walking. The ADAM they pulled from him must have been weakening him.

Jack grabbed the last lever on the panel. Shouts and footsteps were already coming from downstairs.

The Little Sisters had let go of Fontaine and were crawling back into their hidey-holes.

"Would you kindly shut up?" Jack said, pulling the last lever.

Fontaine had fallen to his knees, and was weakly trying to drag himself over to the panel. Through the window Jack could see all the splicers outside pouring into the orphanage.

He found an elevator nearby and pulled the gate shut.

The footsteps and shouts were closer now.

Fontaine pulled himself up to the panel, but it was too late. Splicers were already flooding the room, digging their blades into Fontaine's back, gouging out chunks.

Jack pulled a lever. The elevator began to descend, right as a splatter of Fontaine's blood splashed in his face.

On his way down, he watched hordes of splicers crowding the stairs, even saw Big Daddies lumbering by, fighting for a piece of Fontaine. And a twisted part of Jack perceived Frank Fontaine's dying screams as music to his ears.

Jack got out of the elevator and climbed back through the trap door and down the ladder.

* * *

Tennenbaum and her Little Sisters were waiting for Jack by the bathysphere.

"Fontaine?" she asked.

"Dead," Jack replied, still clutching his chest and dragging one leg behind him. "Along with the rest of the gang."

"Good," Tennenbaum said, without a trace of emotion in her voice. "Then we are safe from him. We have you to thank for that."

"Please," Jack said. "Don't thank me for killing people."

He climbed into the bathysphere, dropped onto the soft red cushions. And then buried his head in his hands, trying not to cry.

"It's not enough," he said. "There's got to be more. More I can do to help."

Then he looked at the children. He stepped back out of the bathysphere. And he recognized the little girls from the sewer. They each took one of his hands.

"I can take care of them," he said. "I can't do much, but I can give them a place to live. I can bring them up like normal kids."

He looked around, tears still forming in his eyes.

"But I can't take them all. I can't afford to."

Tennenbaum put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You don't need to."

The Little Sister that had guided Jack through the sewers came forward. Jack dropped to his knees and all three hugged him.

"If you can find room in your heart, even for just these three little ones . . ."

Jack climbed back to his feet. He led the girls into the bathysphere.

"Go," Tennebaum said. "When the rest of us are ready, we will see you again on the surface."

Jack pulled the lever. The door closed, and the bathysphere plunged into the water below.

_"Mama Tennenbaum?" a Little Sister asked, watching the bathysphere disappear. "Where are they going?"_

_ "Someplace wonderful, my child."_

Meanwhile, Jack's bathysphere was whipping through Rapture's water ways. His adopted daughters had their faces pressed against the glass, watching the city rush by.

_"This angel," Tennenbaum continued, "will give them a life. Will give them a family."_

_ She imagined Jack with a good job, a nice home. A man that would raise those children as if they were indeed his own._

_ "Give them a chance to learn, to love. To find happiness."_

The bathysphere was now rocketing skyward. It broke the surface of the water in a mass of foam and bubbles.

_"And what will they give him in return, Mama Tennenbaum?"_

Jack led the little girls through the lighthouse doors. They squinted and shielded their eyes, experiencing daylight for the very first time.

_"They will give him the best gift of all," Tennenbaum said, sitting and letting the Little Sister climb into her lap. "The one thing he's always needed: A reason to live."_

* * *

Elsewhere in Rapture, at the Adonis Luxury Spa, something stirred by the pool.

The Big Daddy, the prototype, clutched its head as if experiencing a massive headache, quickly drew the hand away from the helmet as if it were surprised the helmet was there.

It waved its massive gloves through the porthole in the helmet, surprised by them as well.

Then, slowly, it stood up.

"Finally awake, huh, sport?" a smooth Southern drawl sounded from somewhere in the helmet. "Good, because we got plenty to do. Welcome back, Subject Delta. My name is Augustus Sinclaire. And I think we can do business together."

* * *

_**A/N - First of all, I realize there's a flaw in Fontaine's "half, half, and half" math. That was intentional.**_

_**And, again, I apologize if anyone's disappointed Jack didn't go through with harvesting the Little Sisters. I just didn't have the heart. The Little Sisters are just too adorable, and the only time I've done anything other than rescue them is one time in **_**Bioshock 2**_** where I pressed the "Harvest" button on accident.**_

_****__**It's past four in the morning, which I find interesting because that's also the time I've realized it was every time I've finished Fontaine playing **_**Bioshock. _Always spend more hours than I thought I would playing the ending of the game. And I can't believe it's taken me nearly 2 years to finally conclude this story._**

**_I really hope you all enjoyed it, and that, if there ever is a _Bioshock _movie, I at least came somewhere close._**


End file.
